


Until We Wake

by princessalistair



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Multi, Recovery, major alistair feels like woah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessalistair/pseuds/princessalistair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*UNDERGOING REWRITE* </p><p>Alistair Theirin was not a name that passed many lips, not for the decade after the fabled Warden-Commander slayed the Arch-Demon with Teryn Loghain at her side and elected Queen Anora to her rightful throne. A wandering drunk with little left to reputation and a disgrace to the Grey Wardens and his Theirin blood, he was a simple side-note to a large part of history.</p><p> Life had gone on, and with the panic of the Breach and newly formed Inquisition, few remembered him and even fewer had time to wonder just what had become of him.</p><p>...until he appears one day in Skyhold, properly drunk and stowed away in a cheese wagon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This is my first fanfic and well thought out piece of work in what feels like forever, so I am a bit nervous about posting this, but this has been an idea that's been pestering me for a while. 
> 
> I always sat and wondered what happened to drunken Alistair in Inquisition, as he's the only version of him not mentioned in game (for obvious reasons). My canon playthrough, he's remained a Grey Warden and at my Warden-Commander's side, so while that wasn't as much of an issue for me, it was still something that was on my mind.
> 
> I wanted to explore that version of him a bit more, instead of assuming he's unconscious in a ditch somewhere mumbling about treachery and cheese, and try to possibly work with him into his recovery process. I think it would be interesting to explore the relationships he'd make at Skyhold, new and old, and perhaps even a future reconciliation between him and my Warden.
> 
> I think it's also a good opportunity to shed some light on the other addictions we see in-game, obvious and more subtle, especially regarding Cullen and (not quite at the level of Alistair and Cullen, but) Dorian.
> 
> So far, the only background pairing I have set in stone is my qunari inquisitor with Dorian, but more might be added along the way. I seek to expand on the residents within Skyhold and bring in my own Dragon Age OC's.
> 
> So, enjoy the first chapter and tell me what you think! I'm all ears for critic!
> 
> *UPDATE* I deleted the other chapters and rewrote the first one, including a LOT of chapter two (so it's pretty lengthy). The new chapters will be out soon, as everything is already written and just needs to be reworked for the new changes. Thanks guys!

**_T_ ** _hen._

The first time Connor saw Redcliffe again, a strangled sound emerged from his throat and he stumbled.

“Connor?” said his companion, elbowing his side as they dragged their feet. “You ‘right?”

He couldn’t speak. It was though all the magic in his body had been sucked out, taking his breath and thoughts with it, leaving him weak in the knees. Redcliffe Castle was a harsh figure on the sunny horizon, its shadow casting across the village below like an ominous figure.

“Connor,” his friend repeated again, his tone of voice sharpening from worry. “Speak to me. What is it?”

“It’s been years,” Connor replied hoarsely. He cleared his throat, adjusting the pack on his back. He finally looked away. “…I did not want to come home like this.”

“Like wha’?” the other mage pressed, thick brows furrowing as he observed the man.

Connor waved his arm to the crowd in front of them, lips thinning. “Like _this.”_

Around them, oblivious to anything but the aches in their feet and hearts, the mages trekked on. Elves and humans, children still swaddled and barely higher than hip-height, elders hunched and leaning on one another, and in the midst of it all, the ever quiet tranquil, merely following the herd without a clue as to what was going on around them. Early into their journey, they were all fresh-faced with wonder and fear and excitement. They wore fine, heavy robes that would tangle at their feet and stayed up into the wee hours of the morning whispering of the life they would have.

Now they all looked weary, wearing torn and burnt clothes with bloodstains barely scrubbed out of them. They barely survived every moment of their journey up until this point, and didn’t know if they will continue to do so. It was plain and clear with every sallow face and hunched back.

“We’re alive,” his companion said fiercely. “That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Connor’s tired gaze met his. “Rob…”

“The _Queen_ let us come!” the dark haired man continued. “Arl Teagan is going to protect us! Don’t you get it? We’ve won. It’s over.”

“It’s not over!” Connor finally snapped, frustration bubbling into anger in his chest. “It’s never over!”

A shout cut through their argument, making them whip around to face where it came from.

“It is an army that approaches.” A figure appeared over Redcliffe’s Gates, followed by archers. “Hail! Who goes there?”

“The free mages of Ferelden!” Fiona’s voice rang clear and true. Scattered cheers followed her proclamation. “We were told that sanctuary has been given to us by her majesty, Queen Anora!”

“Are there any abominations among you?” the man called back, suspicion evident. “Any blood mages? We will check all wrists!”

“Ridiculous!” spat one of the mages to their right. “Will they ‘check’ us as thoroughly as the Templars once did?”

“Will they turn us away at the gate?”

“No! They couldn’t! The Queen…!”

“Mummy, I’m tired…”

There was an uneasy murmur amongst the crowd, but the Grand Enchanter didn’t let it last. She forced herself to the front, hand held high and causing immediate silence.

“We will cooperate with whatever is asked of us, Sers, but we have traveled a long way. Our children are hungry and tired. No blood mages or abominations have been or will ever be amongst our numbers. I can swear to you that.”

There was a quiet moment after as the guards absorbed this information and the mages looked to each other for reassurance. Then, suddenly, the gates began to groan as they were opened.

“We’ve done it,” breathed Rob at his side in happy disbelief. “We’re really, truly free.”

Connor remained silent.

~*~

“Connor.”

He almost did not look up. Teagan’s eyes met his, watery as he stepped forward.

“Uncle.” He spoke so quietly he almost had to strain to hear himself.

Teagan looked at him, hands held out but hovering, at a loss of what to do. He looked him up and down, smiling slowly forming on his face. “Look at you,” he said at last. “Fully grown. You’re a man now, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty now,” he responded, grimacing when he meant to smile. “I suppose so.”

The hands finally reached his shoulders, and Connor crumpled under the weight of them, falling into his uncle’s arms.

“Eleven years,” he breathed into his hair, causing shivers to run down the younger man’s spine. “How – how have you been? Your father – you look so much like him, when he was…”

“Fine,” he said quickly, squeezing back. “I’ve been fine. I managed to stay out of most of the fighting.”

It was a lie, and he burned with shame, but if he had learned one thing during his time in the Circle, it was that some things were better kept secret.

“Come, come,” Teagan said hurriedly, pulling back, “You must meet everyone!”

“Everyone?” echoed Connor, stomach dropping. He was confused at the anxiety filling him, but for some reason the moment he had fantasized about for years was panicking him. He didn’t even have a chance to bathe before being summoned, better yet prepare himself.

“My wife, our… our daughter.”

“You… Mother did not tell me. In her letters.” Connor swallowed, playing with the material of his sleeves.

Teagan looked away. “It has been a sore point for her. She hasn’t visited since her birth.”

Connor didn’t want to think too much about that. “What is her name?”

“Thalia,” Teagan smiled broad. “After my aunt who raised me. She’s only a few years old, but you’ll love her.”

He nodded. There were children in the Circle, of course, but any experience with children smaller than four were recent. Babies were somehow born in the chaos of the war and he avoided them at all costs, disturbed by the whole affair.

He’d faced a number of monsters on the road, human or otherwise, and for some reason the idea of this tiny child scared him more than any of them did.

“I would like a bath, first, if that’s all right.” He saw Teagan’s face fall and quickly continued, “I really want to meet Thalia, Uncle, and everyone else, but I haven’t bathed in so long…”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Teagan nodded, looking sheepish. “I forgot about that. I can’t believe it, everything… everything that happened… but you’re here now. That’s what matters, eh, lad?”

He patted him on the back and Connor stifled his whimper as his still healing wounds throbbed.

~*~

The bath that was drawn for him was half the size of the apprentice quarters back at the Circle. He kept to one corner for most of it, almost afraid of being swallowed up if he wasn’t careful. But it was hot, and he was, for once in years, completely alone, and he scrubbed himself raw.

Taking care of the healing wounds was hard, and he gritted his teeth each time soap spilt over the now inflamed areas, but he worked through it. Slowly, surely, after what felt like hours and his body was stiff from sitting, he felt clean.

He let out a shaky breath when he emerged, unsure if his lightheadedness was caused by the hot water or the hundreds of thoughts racing in his head.

Outside his bedroom, which was thankfully smaller than the baths he’d been led to earlier, he shivered as a breeze blew past.

Glancing around, he realized one of the hall windows were open, curtains fluttering in the night wind. The partying outside was muffled, as he was on one of the higher levels of the castle, but there was no ignoring it. The mages were boisterous and giddy with their arrangement, and he had found few moments to be alone.

He steeled himself to go downstairs and meet with his family in a private dining area, away from the villagers and their nervous hospitality, when a figure stopped him.

Looking out one of the windows a little ways farther, Alistair Theirin leaned against the wall, bottle of drink loose in his grip.

“Alistair?” Connor couldn’t help but gasp. He looked nothing like the bright, broad man he’d met over a decade ago, but he could never forget the man who saved him. “Is that you?”

At his name, the blond turned his head, tilting it in acknowledgement. “And who are you, mage?”

Connor was taken aback by the flat drawl of his voice, the man’s words slightly slurred. He glanced up and down, soaking in more details of his ragged appearance. He did not think anyone could make fine silks and trousers look as disastrous as Alistair was managing.

“Your…” Connor struggled to find the word, realizing he did not quite know his relationship with the man. “Connor Guerrin is my name. Do you remember me?”

Suddenly, Alistair stood straight from his slumping and blinked rapidly. His grip on the bottle tightened. “Connor? No –“ He stepped closer, squinting. His eyes widened as he spotted whatever he was looking for, a smile wrinkling onto his face as he gave a quiet laugh. “Well, it truly is you. You look like Eamon when you scowl.”

“I do not scowl!” He couldn’t help but huff, frowning severely at the man. “Least I’m not so drunk I can’t recognize my – my _nephew_.”

“We’re more like cousins, anyway.” Alistair chuckled, taking a quick sip from his drink. “Odd pair, aren’t we? The mage and the bastard. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Connor blinked owlishly at him. “The Rebellion – the War. Have you not –?”

“Of course I’ve heard of that,” Alistair snapped, looking affronted. “I meant what are you doing _here?”_ He gestured to the space in front of him with the ale. “There’s a party downstairs. They must all be waiting for you. The prince of Redcliffe has returned.”

Connor’s ears burned when he looked away, both in shame and at the old nickname. Only Rob ever called him that anymore, and always when alone, him being one of the few he’d told his identity to.

“There’s…too many people,” he tried, reddening even more. “I don’t know how to act. It’s been so long, and they’re all coming at me from all directions. I’m overwhelmed. Just a week ago I was barely sleeping to avoid night raids and now – “ his throat closed shut as tears threatened to spill.

“Now, suddenly, you’re in fine downy beds and eating warm food and safe. It’s been a while since you’ve been outside of the Circle, hasn’t it? Did Teagan even tell you about his daughter?”

“Yes,” Connor whispered with a hint of despair. “And his wife. I’ve…missed so much. Mother refuses to come visit, and Father’s been… I wasn’t there.”

“He spoke of you,” Alistair said thickly, before taking a swig of his drink so long he about finished the bottle. “During his last moments, he spoke only of you.”

His words did nothing to help, they both knew it, but they both also knew that if Alistair didn’t tell him, no one would. His family was good at being silent at the worst of times.

“Why aren’t you down there?” Connor asked suddenly, curiosity burning in his eyes as he glanced to him. “Mother said you’ve been living here for the past couple of years.”

“And I suppose she said it so nicely in her letters?” Alistair smirked.

“She likes to be honest,” Connor said neutrally. His cousin snorted.

“I have been but a ghost, if I’m completely honest,” Alistair said, tone hushed. There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside, a blast of magic whizzing into the sky and screeching as it exploded into beautiful sparks. “Nothing keeps me but my drink.”

“Impossible,” Connor growled, looking confused. “Uncle cares so much for you, why let yourself waste? You did so much and you’re just, what, drinking yourself to death?”

“If I remember correctly,” Alistair snarled, “I was _exiled._ I was only allowed back by the skin of my teeth and from humiliating myself in front of the Landsmeet at _your_ Uncle’s encouragement. Then he all but locks me up in his castle and forgets about me. There is nothing I can do but exist.”

“There’s a war going on!” Connor shouted, anxiety swelling inside him once more. “Out there, people are dying! Children, mages or not, they’re being killed and you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself!”

Alistair rounded on him so suddenly he forgot how to breathe. The hand not holding his alcohol was fisted in his shirt, all but lifting him on the ground (and the strain of it causing the man’s arm to tremble), his drunk breath made the boy choke.

“There is always a war, boy.” His words were hushed. “There is always death, there is always injustice. And there is always drunks.”

He dropped him, causing Connor to stumble as he suddenly touched the ground again, and smashed his bottle on the ground before stalking away.

~*~

**_N_ ** _ow._

It was early morning in the Frostback Mountains, with the sun barely peeking out over the sharp mountain tops and guiding the way of merchants ambling up the roads to Skyhold. Normally, most of the staff within the great fortress was up by this time, making preparations for the day as the rest of the residents continued to wake up. Soldiers yawned as they dressed and greeted each other, the priests held their daily morning prayers in the gardens, and the Inquisitor met with his advisors for a quiet breakfast.

However, today the keep was lively and buzzing with excited activity as its residents greeted and unloaded the wagons rolling in steadily. The Inquisitor, with the help of Josephine, had struck a rather smart alliance with an Orlesian noble who owned farms not too far from the border. In a gesture of friendship and good faith, the nobleman had promised to send goods to aid the Inquisition.

The Inquisitor had expected a wagon or two, but as it stood, there was an entire line of carts going from down the road and into the entrance. It was just as much a surprise to him as it was the remaining soldiers and scouts that were roused to give a hand.

The Inquisition was as powerful and needed more than anyone could imagine. The job security wasn’t too bad, either. But if there was a time in the world where Lace Harding felt she could take her job for granted and complain, it was during days like these.

It wasn’t as though she had been  _forced_ to help organize the noisy courtyard and inspect each wagon; in fact, she all but begged to be allowed to help. It was her fault she was standing there, trousers already muddied, hair messily put up from her hurrying out of bed, still wearing her silken bed shirt.

Not for the first time that morning, she heaved a deep sigh.

It didn’t help she had already been put in charge of the trainees.

“Maker,” groaned one of them to Harding’s left. She was a wispy looking elf, with slanted almond eyes and shoulder-length brown hair just long enough to tie into a loose pony-tail. She was leaning on her bow, which was nearly as tall as her, and looking at the scene with exaggerated wide-eyed terror. “Wha’ did I do to get this shift? It’s too early for this…”

“If the sun is up, we’re up, Layla,” Harding said mechanically. At this point, waking up before even the rooster sounded the alarm was natural to her. She spent most of her time on the road now, getting the lay of the land for the Inquisitor as head of the scouting teams or just doing patrol rounds. “It’s something you’re going to have to get used to.”

Her response was a withering look from Layla, whose slight Starkhaven accent became thicker with her irritation. “The sun can go feck itself.”

“If only there was a hole in the sky to take care of that,” muttered another elf dryly. He stood taller and stronger in stature and attitude, but shared a distinct likeness in features to the first elf. While his face remained carefully cool and blank, the corners of his mouth twitched. “Then  _all_ of our problems would just be over, wouldn’ they?”

“Oh, stuff it, Alris,” snarled the first elf with surprising energy. “Not everyone can wake up in the morning like Andraste herself called for your lucidity.”

“Perhaps you could ask the Herald for help in that department, then, sister.”

The roads by Skyhold were uneven with slick mud and snow puddles so soon after rain, causing some of the younger scouts scurrying between wagons to squeal as they narrowly avoided getting splashed. The horses pulling the carts were neighing and whinnying anxiously, stomping and shaking their heads as they all circled sharply as the trainees attempted to direct the drivers into some sort of position. Eyeing the conditions warily, Layla slipped her bow over her head to secure it and tip-toed carefully around the puddles as they walked.

“Alright,” Harding loudly and sharply called both of their attention. The bags under her eyes and distinct flat tone was enough of a command than her actual words. “Let’s grab a horse and calm it down before someone gets crushed by a cart again.”

“Remind me again why we’re the grunts doing this?” whined Layla, distaste clear on her face even as she stood with more refined purpose. It was always amazing to Harding how she could look every inch the part and manage to ruin the image with each word she spoke. “Don’t we have people for this?”

“I’m sure the ‘grunts’ would appreciate hearing that,” said Alris. He left before Layla could respond, quick on his feet from weeks of routine and habit ingrained into him, as well as years of dealing with his twin. One of the serving maids passing by shot them an irritated glance as they struggled with their armful of cheese, clearly having heard the elf's earlier remark.

“There’s wagons upon wagons in here and they’re busyin’ themselves with  _cheese,_ ” Layla sneered. “Well, let’s hope I get a raise for this…”

“We didn’t join the Inquisition for the  _wages,_  Layla…”

“This is one of the biggest deliveries we’ve had in a while,” Harding said, forcing nonchalance as she and Layla circled the first wagon. The driver was thankfully quieter and less moody than most of the short-tempered Orlesians that came through, but was still eyeing them with caution. Layla especially, with the way she was grabbing at his goods carelessly and wrinkling her nose at anything she didn’t like. Unfortunately for this particular driver, that was everything in his wagon. “The trade agreement must have gone over especially well…”

“I heard the noble was pretty excited,” Alris said off-handedly, holding up the blanket covering the shipment. This delivery in particular was carefully packaged boxes of what seemed to be sweets, and he looked worriedly to his sister, who was holding a small box and squinting at the text with a dangerously loose grip. “He’d never seen a qunari before.”

“Pardon moi, madame dwarf,” the driver began tersely, glancing between Harding and Layla. He was pausing in between some words as he spoke Ferelden, but his struggle seemed concentrated on keeping calm as he watched the sour-looking elf. “These are… _extremely_  delicate pastries. It would not do for my Lord Florian to hear of them crushed on arrival.”

As if on cue, there was a dastardly loud crunching noise from where Layla stood. She looked up sheepishly, hands moving from the cart as though burned. The driver let out an extremely Orlesian loud noise of offense.

 _"Layla,”_ hissed Alris, looking between the driver and Harding with poorly concealed horror.

“Pardon her, serah,” Harding said quickly, looking up at the man with a reassuring smile that took the rest of her remaining energy to make. She wouldn’t be surprised if it looked more like a grimace. Getting up early with little issues was her specialty, not niceties and self-control. “I’ll deal with her. You’re free to go drop off your  _delicate_ pastries at the kitchens.”

His nose wrinkled as he examined Harding, but he grunted and nodded. “Fine. Though, I should not be surprised. Fereldens…”

“Just follow the line on the left, ser.”

Harding spared no second to round on her trainee once the wagon began moving again.

“…I’m not even Ferelden – “

“The  _only_ reason you are still standing here is because we’re short of free hands right now and I have no more ability to tackle any more Orlesians without snapping,” she ground out between gritted teeth, eyes flashing. “Do I make myself clear?”

The elf blanched under her gaze, and despite her being much taller than Harding, looked and felt quite small in comparison.

“Do I make myself  _clear?”_ Harding’s words were slower and more drawn out this time. “Layla…”

“Y-yes, mum!” Layla rushed out, flustered. “Err, I meant – ma’am, yes, ma – “

“Next wagon,” muttered Harding, holding a hand to her forehead and waving them off with her free hand. “I need to sit.”

Damn the Inquisitor, she cursed silently. He’d looked so distressed this morning, disheveled from having rushed down the stairs to see his head chef in hysterics from the sudden influx of cheese wheels at their door.

She’d crept in for the same reason anyone else had, to investigate the commotion and report any unusual observations (or juicy gossip). She’d stayed out of concern for the Vashoth, who looked concerned after just barely calming down the chef, Mia.

“I had no idea – “ he’d said helplessly when Harding approached. He didn’t have shoes or slippers on, she realized when she moved closer. “A wagon or two. That’s usually what gets sent at the most. Mia said there was an entire army.”

“An exaggeration,” Harding had, of course, said immediately, feeling bad for him. “It sounded like an army outside my window in the tavern, but I can assure you it’s nothing we can’t handle, Inquisitor.”

He had given her such a hopeful look. He wouldn’t dare ask, he knew; she’d come in so early this morning that the bells in the city over struck midnight upon her arrival. She’d been so busy in the last few months that the only time they’d seen each other was on the occasions they crossed paths on the road. He wouldn’t ask, but…

“I’ll do it,” she affirmed without thinking. “I’ve got your back, like always.”

The relief on his face was enough to outweigh the regret that twisted at her eyelids as sleep had still threatened her.

Now, however, she was thinking of more motivation. Sitting in the shade of one of the merchant stalls below the back wall, she massaged her temples and debated what she’d ask – no, demand – first. A raise? Some newly crafted weapons, better saddles and faster horses?

She groaned, leaning back. Of course. Her first thoughts are things that would make her job better. Never her life.

All for that stupidly cute Inquisitor. It was completely his fault for smiling and flirting at her to the point her work became her life. For a split second, she could understand how people could think a Vashoth mage was Andraste’s reincarnation; a smile like that could call back the Maker!

She sighed once more as she continued to watch the wagons roll by, trying to clear her thoughts and will her headache away.

There was a distinct clink of glass against would that made her jump and look to her left. The sun was brighter in her eyes, causing her to fold her right hand over her eyes.

“You’ve been sitting her looking…dejected for quite a while.” The woman smiling at her was one of the Orlesian merchants who sold their wares within the courtyard. Her mask was discarded this morning, showing her naked face. Even with obvious signs of exhaustion, she still looked exceptionally pretty. Her smile widened as Harding continued staring at her blankly.

“Oh!” Harding moved to stand up, ears red. In her hurry, she nearly knocked over a glass that had suddenly appeared on the table next to her. “I’m so sorry – I hadn’t realized I’d all but taken your stall --!”

The woman had a melodic laugh, high and bright and made Harding smile. She sat down gracefully next to Harding, still smiling in amusement and gesturing to the glass of water the dwarf had nearly hit. “It is no matter. I doubt I’d be getting any customers this morning, no? Go on, drink. You have been out here for a long time, and I know my people can be…what is that phrase? Basket-full?”

Harding took the glass, downing it in a couple of gulps and giving a satisfied sigh after. “Hand-full?” she offered, feeling more like usual self. Company that wasn’t her scouts (mainly Layla) always helped immensely.

“Ah, yes!” The woman beamed at her. She leaned forward on her hand, head tilted to the side as she spoke quietly. “Scout Harding, isn’t it? You and your people don’t come in often, but when you do, you always go to the tavern right next door, yes? You should come say hello sometimes. You always seem so busy, it’s not good for your health.”

She sounded so genuinely concerned that the dwarf didn’t know how to respond for a moment. Harding leaned back in her seat and nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Despite the fact they both seemed to be dressed last minute, she was suddenly keenly aware of how much worse her appearance must look. “Aha, yeah… it’s a tough job, but I really enjoy it. I had been hoping to give those dance lessons today…” She sighed, looking wistfully at the tavern. “Something always comes up, though, whether it’s a pride demon or unexpected delivery…”

“I am glad we are only dealing with the latter!” the woman exclaimed. “I have not had the displeasure of seeing one of those demons. They must be so scary…”

Harding only half-listened, eyes suddenly glued to Layla’s form across the yard. Had she even checked the cart? It looks like she just sniffed it and walked by…

“… Harding? Madame Scout?”

“Huh?” Harding flushed, realizing her rudeness. “Oh, Maker, I’m so sorry – these new trainees, they’re just – well, I can honestly say a demon is the least of my worries…”

The woman gave another one of her pretty smiles. Harding’s stomach dropped as she realized suddenly that she never even bothered to ask her name, but, of course, a screech echoed right as she opened her mouth.

“What in –?!” the merchant stood up, hands covering her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Maker… is that a body?”

“Huh.” Harding stood with surprising calmness as she gazed out to where the wagons were frozen. “Imagine that…”

“What eez it now?” the driver said gruffly as Harding neared. He had tanned skin, leathery from exposure and years in the sun, and it looked stretched thin over his sharp, square features. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk as he eyed the gathering of scouts around his wagon. “All of my cheese was  _ess_ -specially created  _just for the Inquisitor!”_

“Including this body?” Alris held up the corpse’s arm from behind the cart, causing the blanket tied on top of the wagon to fold. “Have the Orlesians become cannibals when we weren’t looking?”

“Ohh, gross!” Layla gasped. “I was wondering why the cheese smelled extra bad today… just figured it was all the Orlesians…”

The driver’s eyes widened before his features twisted in a mixture of anger and exasperation. He looked between the arm Alris held and Harding with a murderous look. “I  _told '_ eem I do  _not_ do charity cases!”

“He’s breathing,” Alris said helpfully, but looked even more disgusted with the body after the statement. “And reeks of drink and vomit and piss. Lovely.” He looked at Harding and sighed. “Stowaway?”

“That Layla somehow missed,” Harding said, giving the young elf a look.

Layla flushed and resolutely avoided Harding’s gaze. “He was very well hidden!”

“He was drunkenly splayed out,” Alris said. “He was barely on the cart – “

“I told 'eem!” the driver continued loudly. “I said to ‘eem, I’m doing honest work! He eez not my problem!” His expression turned forlorn as he dropped his reins and massaged his temples. “Oh, all those fine cheeses….to waste… my lord will be ever so upset…”

There was a pained grown from beneath the blanket and Alris dropped the arm with a scoff.

“Alright,” sighed Harding. “Let’s get him off and somewhere out of the way.”

“I told 'eem,” the driver repeated, mostly to himself. He watched all three of them drag the man out of his cart, which would have been a quicker process if the twins weren’t trying to avoid touching the man at all. He only looked vaguely satisfied once the body was deposited onto a grassy patch by the road, where the snow was still thin from recent rain.

“Cyrus,” Harding called to the scout on the other end of the crossroads. “Get your men to cover this side, too, won’t you? We won’t be long.”

Cyrus was one of Harding’s most trusted allies out in the field. Tall and sturdy, with clean-cut reddish brown hair and stern brown eyes, most of his respect was gathered through fear. He was known to be a no-nonsense perfectionist and always got the job done no matter what. He was someone Harding knew she could trust, and was heavily considering casting off Layla onto, if only to see the young elf’s reaction.

“Right away, ma’am,” Cyrus shouted back before turning and yelling out new orders to his subordinates. Within minutes after their distraction being taken out of the way, the wagons began rolling by at a decent pace and Harding could breathe again.

“Do we just leave him here?” Alris asked quietly, looking to Harding with a frown. “He must’ve come a long way – these goods were brought from southern Orlais…”

Below them, the man stirred. His hair looked matted together, piss-yellow and thin, and was stuck to his face. A thick beard tangled to an unidentifiable mass that reached past his adam’s apple, obscuring most of his face and probably, Alris thought, containing a large part of the stench coming from him (among other places). His clothes looked as though they were nice once – noble, even, if he dared offend the higher class by a comparison – but were stained and raggedy from wear and the elements. The poor excuse for a man probably hadn’t changed in a while, carried no coin, and looked feverish with the beginnings of withdrawal as he murmured restlessly.

“Oi,” Layla called to him when she saw his eyelids flutter. “Oi! You! Drunkard!”

Harding’s eyes flashed. She knew exactly what Layla was preparing herself to do, and held out her hand, voice stern as she attempted to stop her. “Layla, don’t – “

The tiny elf kicked the man swiftly.

“Layla!” Alris snapped angrily before Harding could even open her mouth. He grabbed her arm and yanked her close, causing the tinier girl to wriggle and hiss in protest.

“Get off!” the girl yowled. “I’m not a child anymore, you can’t just – “

“Then don’t act like one! Regardless of how incredibly  _stupid_ you were just now, you disobeyed your leader!”

The man on the ground gave a little moan before actually opening his eyes. Deciding she’d deal with the trainee properly later, Harding crouched down next to the blonde and ignored the bickering twins.

“Serah?” she murmured, voice soothing. She scanned him for any obvious injuries as well as weapons. She continued to talk in the same hushed tone, indicating to the other two to quiet down, and began to pat the man down. “Ser, are you all right?”

“Mmumph,” he replied. He shifted more, shoving his pained expression into the wet grass. “I…”

“Aha,” Harding said to herself as she pulled out a small dagger from the man’s inner pockets. She cleared her throat and sat back on her haunches, looking more attentive to the man’s words.

“’m thwart…” he rasped. “…thirsty.”

Layla’s nose wrinkled, but Harding shot her a warning look and she quieted.

“Would you like water?” Harding asked softly. Despite the fact it was relatively chilly out, which couldn’t be helped due to the altitude and location, he seemed flushed. She had her gloves on and wouldn’t be able to gouge his temperature properly, but had no desire to touch his skin anyway.

The man did not stir after that.

Alris snorted. “He’s out cold.”

For once, Layla had nothing smart to say. Harding glanced to her, noting the crease in her brow.

“Ah, Scout Harding?”

Harding looked over her shoulder and stood up immediately to greet the merchant she’d been chatting with earlier. “Err, Madame?”

“If it is not too much trouble, I brought some ‘elp.” She folded her hands in front of her carefully and nodded to the large man dragging a one-wheeled wagon over. “Jacque is very good with heavy things. He can carry this man into the keep so we can attend to him.”

If there hadn’t been a stinking drunk body between the two of them, Harding knew she would’ve leapt over and kissed the woman.

~*~

 When Alistair awoke it was to the muffled sound of frantic shouts and Teagan’s hurried whispers in his ear. His hands were a solid weight on his shoulders as they shoved at him harshly, nearly throwing him off the bed.

 _“Wake up, Alistair! Wake up!”_ his voice was a low-toned hiss, tinged with desperation and wavering. The shouts were growing louder, merging into a piercing, cascading crescendo that made the man moan in pain and weakly push Teagan away.  _“Wake up, you fool!”_

 _So loud,_ he thought miserably, pawing at his ears.  _Make it stop._

Should he ever look back at this crucial moment, he would realize just how close to tears Teagan had sounded – or had he already reached that point? He could not tell then because he hadn’t been able to see. The darkness shrouding them was suffocating, interrupted only by the occasional mysterious green flashes that shined from beneath his door.

His world exploded suddenly with pain. The left and right sides of his cheeks stung, waking up him with such an abruptness he may as well have been hit with his usual craving. Blinking stupidly up at his uncle, he was suddenly jolted into action. Teagan’s eyes shined with relief and fear.

Alistair’s temples throbbed as he began to shakily sit up with Teagan’s help, but he ignored it. It had been years since his blood rushed in his ears with the adrenaline and excitement he had bitterly missed, encouraged by the waves of urgency and panic radiating off his uncle. He felt as steady as he ever had when he finally stood balanced on his own.

“We’ve got to leave  _now,”_ Teagan said shortly when Alistair opened his mouth, who kept it agape for a moment before closing it with a snap. “The rebels – they’ve turned against the village, they’re trying to force anyone non-magical out… we’ve to hurry if you…”

He watched Teagan dumbly as he moved around the room, grabbing at objects he could barely make out in the darkness.  _Mages?_ Thought Alistair, feeling quite out of place. For a second, he was back in the Circle. Corpses littered every turn as templars scrutinizing him with tired, morose eyes and Morrigan’s sneering…

He was ripped from his thoughts as a scream pierced the air, followed by an exhale and murmured prayer from Teagan. The man closed his eyes briefly before reopening them and refocusing on Alistair.

“I can’t go with you. I won’t leave my people – I need to make sure anyone who can’t get out on their own escapes –! “ he grunted as he threw aside what seemed to be a chair and smashed something. He made a satisfied hum as he pulled out something sharp that glinted in the dim lighting.

“Here,” he said, not trusting Alistair enough to toss it to him even an inch. He placed it carefully in the other man’s hands, making sure to secure his fingers tight over the handle. Alistair’s hands were trembling beneath his. “Please, Alistair; no matter what you do, do not lose this. You have little protection otherwise, and I can’t….”

His voice wobbled as he choked out his words. “I cannot help you this time, not with… I am sorry.”

Alistair merely looked down at the dagger in his hand, tracing the shape. His fingers were soft after years of holding little other than a bottle and felt awkward holding a weapon that had once been so familiar.

Just then, a clatter sounded from outside the hall, followed by a fiery explosion. Whatever commotion had been going on from earlier grew closer, bringing with it more excited yelling and screams. The lights danced menacingly from where it glowed underneath the door, illuminating the concern twisting Teagan’s face. Alistair realized for the first time that he had more wrinkles now, looking older than he should, and for a split second, it felt as though he was a young child again with Eamon looking at him with barely suppressed pity.

This time, however, he wasn’t being sent off to the Chantry, but somewhere scarier. The absolute Unknown, completely by himself.

“We’ve got to go now,” Teagan’s voice was strained. He opened the door slowly and peered around it, sharply inhaling at whatever it was he witnessed. “Maker preserve us… Alistair, will you be all right?”

It took the blond a moment to realize he was being addressed. Licking his lips, he glanced between the hall and Teagan. “I – I think so. Yes. I still remember how to fight…”

Not enough to survive any real battle, but he didn’t say that. There was no need. They both knew it.

Something flashed in Teagan’s expression, but left as soon as it came. His hand came back on Alistair’s shoulder for a last time, squeezing it with what he assumed was reassurance.

“Run as fast as you can,” he said, sounding calm for the first time. “Don’t look back. Keep running, make sure you get out of Redcliffe alive. I’ll find you, when it’s all over. Now  _go!”_

_“Teagan – “_

He couldn’t breathe. Faster than he could blink, Teagan’s face was being shrouded with darkness that seemed to have its own mind. The entire room was blackening, the outline of the shadows twisting and growing in horrifying movements. He didn’t understand what was going on, only that it was happening and crushing his lungs against his ribcage.

He opened his mouth to call for his uncle, but it was in vain; he could only watch, frozen, as the last of Teagan’s body was enveloped in inky sludge. When the figure next emerged, his face wasn’t his own – it was that of a darkspawn grinning at him with a set of full, glinting teeth.

All at once, the whispers hit him, swarming his thoughts and tearing out anything sane and rational. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. They were all around him now, taunting and cackling and hissing promises of what was to come as the darkspawn’s putrid breath puffed over his face. Its hands were gripping his entire body, squeezing him so tight he could feel the life drain out of him. No sound came from his open mouth.

The screams from outside the door increased to a deafening level, coming from all sides of the undefinable mass and calling to him.

~*~

If there was ever a point in time that Commander Cullen ever felt pity so utterly for another person, it was when he walked into the main level of Skyhold.

Scout Harding stood in the middle of the room looking absolutely miserable as Bonny Sims tsked over her in a manner both insultingly patronizing and extremely amusing to witness. There was such a dramatic flair to her movements, between her swishing skirts as she circled the dwarf and the high-pitched bleating noises coming out of her mouth, that Cullen couldn’t suppress his chuckles.

“Oh, Harding, I insist… please, let her look at you! Your eye is swelling so terribly…”

Harding grimaced as the merchant woman flitted around her, fingers hovering just centimeters above her blackened eye and lightly brushing across it with each movement. She reached out and grabbed her hand as gently as she could manage, ignoring the way both her eyes watered, and sound very much close to reaching her breaking point. “I’m fine. Really. Please stop touching it.”

“It’s getting worse, I swear it!”

Next to the pair, a disgruntled looking woman stood with her arms crossed and winced at the high-pitched tone Bonny took. Cullen recognized her to be Flissa, the woman who’d owned Haven’s tavern. Since Haven’s destruction, she’d joined the Chantry and aided the sisters in their basic healing and prayers. Right now, however, she looked the farthest from pleased at being forced to help.

“She says it’s fine. It looks fine. Can I go now?”

He continued to walk slowly by, hoping they wouldn’t spot him and that he could scurry off before he lingered too long to be polite. His stomach dropped when Harding spotted him and struck him with a pleading eyed look. Damn her and her keen hearing. Best scout in the region or no, she was using her ability for evil.

“Harding?” Cullen called hesitantly, hoping he’d somehow be ignored. Out of habit and respect, the two human women present bowed to him immediately, looking surprised at his sudden appearance. Harding merely inclined her head, biting her lip as the left side of her face throbbed. She could only look so grateful when her face was that swollen, he supposed.

“Good to see you, Commander,” the dwarf greeted him eagerly as he approached. “Well, err. Mostly see you.”

“That drunken madman we brought in did this!” sniffed Bonny, looking even more outraged now that she had someone official to rant to. “After what we did for him…!”

“We thought he was conscious and he was just having a bad dream,” Harding elaborated quickly, shooting the woman an annoyed glance with her good eye. As she was standing on the other side of her, she couldn’t see it, and continued to stand by the dwarf almost protectively. “Turns out as drunk as he was, he can still throw one hell of a punch.”

“And she’s  _fine,_ ” Flissa added firmly. “Just a black-eye. She’ll be seeing with no problem within a week.”

“A week!” the noblewoman all but screeched as she repeated it.

“Yes. A week. She’ll live.”

“Alright, alright,” Cullen cut in quickly, holding his hands up and feeling as frantic as the two women looked. Dealing with common disputes between those who couldn’t settle it during sparring practice was not a specialty of his. “Thank you, Madame Sims, Flissa. That will be all.”

The Madame looked extremely unhappy and did not budge from her place next to Harding. “I am starting to question the judgement of our healers here.” Her lip curled as she regarded Flissa, causing the sister to bristle. “Harding was barely glanced at.”

“I appreciate your concern, Madame Sims, but Harding will be fine. She’s one of our best scouts and has undoubtedly dealt with worse.” There was no mistaking the cracking in his voice, but he cleared his throat quickly and glanced back to Flissa, attempting to sound more like he did when commanding his soldiers. “And you, Flissa. Though you’re not a healer, you’ve been a good addition to the Chantry and the Inquisition since Haven. You can go back to your duties.”

Both of them, thankfully, understood a dismissal when they heard it.

“I will remain outside, with the wagons,” Bonny told him tartly, curtsying in such a way that it looked forced and defiant. “Though they have stopped coming, finally, I believe I can help with smoothing the process.”

“I appreciate it, Madame,” Cullen sighed, real relief in his tone. As head of the Tradesmen guild, he trusted her ability to wrangle the caravans of goods better than anyone else’s. She would do more good out there than she would offending the general public inside.

Both he and Harding watched her depart with baited breath, exhaling only once they couldn’t see or hear her. 

“Sooo,” Harding said, turning back to him with raised brows. “How do you do that? Seriously? If I could utilize that against my trainees we’d have found Corypheus within a week.”

“Years of practice, I suppose,” Cullen said sheepishly, hand resting on his sword’s hilt in his normal fashion. He flushed from the naked awe on Harding’s face, unsure of how to feel about it. “With my men, it’s more natural. I guess you’ve got to just look and sound intimidating and they’ll listen.”

“Or awkwardly charming,” Harding sighed wistfully, running a hand through her hair. “For the moment, I’m just a small dwarf who has to get a stepping stool to knock sense into people. Thanks again, Commander. You really saved my ass there.”

He matched her tired small. “No problem. This morning hasn’t exactly been the easiest, but I swear by Andraste it’s only made worse by all the whining.”

Harding slumped, covering her face with her hands with a loud groan that only grew louder when she brushed against her eye. “Tell me about it. Did anyone tell you that one of my trainees kicked that man before we brought him in? I swear, I  _knew_  she was going to do it by the look in her eye. I warned her before she did it and she did it anyway.”

Cullen threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Maker, it gets to me when you’ve dealt with their shenanigans long enough you can just  _tell._ Half the time I’m not sure if I’m a Commander or babysitter.”

They continued to laugh, warmed by the good company. “So,” Cullen began, letting out a puff of air as he observed Harding. “I heard you discovered a Warden amongst the aged cheese.”

“Alistair Theirin. Not a name I’d heard for a while.” She winced at the memory of his sloppy fist hitting her face; as precise as he’d been in his sleep, his nails had grazed her skin in a way that couldn’t be described as gentle. “I’d heard he hadn’t exactly been in the best shape, but I just chalked it up to rumors… Isn’t my place to judge him, but I think I can feel  _something_ with this shiner.”

“He’s certainly got you good. Are you really all right, by the way?”

“Yeah,” she scowled and rubbed her cheek tenderly once more. “I’ll live. Not like I’ll be sent out less. We’ve been here, what? A couple of months now? And I don’t think I’ve spent more than two weeks total here. Did you know we have pantries larger than the stables?”

“A fact I’m sure Josephine had informed our most recent gift-giver,” Cullen said in exasperation. “Not that anyone is complaining from the sudden influx of well-needed supplies, but… I suppose I’d gotten used to only seeing a wagon and having the rest sent to the refugee camps.”

“Well,  _we_ are the camps now,” Harding said. She’d smile and shine with pride if she wasn’t feeling close to dropping. “I’m starting to wonder who else is going to drop on our doorstep next. I’d always wanted to meet the Champion – Varric’s been sharing stories nonstop for a week now.”

“Let’s hope Alistair is the only infamous face amongst the refugees,” Cullen said quickly, “I’ve enough to deal with between the Inquisitor and recruits.”

He glanced to the door leading downstairs and, undoubtedly, to one of the rooms housing their new guest. He hadn’t seen him with his own eyes yet, but he could only imagine what the once-Warden looked like. The man he’d seen Arl Teagan walk out of Kirkwall was not the same man by whom he met at the Circle. Eerily, he had reminded him of how Samson had looked when cast out; a hunched, depressing version of his old self, hollowed out from addiction, addled with lyrium and a lack of purpose.

He straightened suddenly, knowing he could not afford to delve into those thoughts. He could still feel the ache in his bones from the trek across to Frostbacks and to the conveniently placed Skyhold. At the time, the fortress stood as a blessing, as much a miracle as the Inquisitor’s appearance had been. Now, all it gave him was endless headaches and, horrifyingly enough, paperwork

 “Well, Scout Harding,” he began, speaking with vigor, “as the leader of the Inquisition’s forces, I hereby relieve you of your duties for today. Rest well, soldier.”

“Thank you,” the dwarf mouthed as she saluted him.

~*~

**_T_ ** _hen._

“Where do we go?” Rulf whispered hopelessly. “Redcliffe was our only hope, and you ruined it!”

“Shut _up!”_ Rob snapped, pulling his cloak tighter around his shivering form.

“No!” Rulf hissed back, voice lowered only slightly. He was terrified. “I didn’t agree to help you with this – this idiocy!”

“Then go!” Rob’s voice was as cold as the icy air, eyes glittering from the stagnant light. “No one’s forcing you!”

The wisp in his palms fluttered, as though influenced by his words. The darkness was beginning to bear down on them, but they were trapped. The area was completely overrun and monitored, and without more light (dangerous, foolish idea that would have the rebels upon them in seconds) they had no choice but to buckle down until dawn and pray. The wisp brought no warmth except small, foolish reassurance.

A figure approached the boys, snow crunching underfoot. The wisp seemed to migrate towards them, illuminating Alistair’s tired face.

“Alistair,” Rob called, relief flooding him. Connor would kill him if anything were to happen to the man, and he forced down his bitterness about the whole thing. “What have you found?”

“They’re coming,” he whispered.

A light burst out from the trees, slamming into Alistair’s back and throwing him a few yards. The boys barely had time to gasp before they were similarly knocked out.

With its creator unconscious, the wisp faded out of existence, the bodies cloaked in impenetrable darkness once more.


	2. Chapter 2

~*~

 **_S_ ** _kyhold._

The War Room looked undisturbed from how it was left last night, the only difference being that all the candles were put out and it was sunlight filtering through the windows, not moonlight. In all honesty, Josephine felt like she’d just been there a couple hours ago, which was probably truer than she realized. She knew she wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of sleeping so late and waking so early either; both Leliana and Cullen looked as ragged as she did, and if it wasn’t for the excitement of the past few hours, they’d all be dead on their feet.

Not that the current state of things was any different from the usual – if anything, a baker’s dozen of wagons that  _should_ have been expected (if anyone in the kitchens had bothered to pay attention to her words) was a desirable change of pace compared to a giant hole in the sky and power-hungry Darkspawn. No, Josephine was secretly grateful; as the heir to her family, she is used to directing chaos in the homestead and smoothening any wrinkles. It was her natural state of being at this point and almost relaxing.

Lord Florian had been a negotiation that was beyond brilliant. She’d been showered under the Inquisitor and the other advisor’s praise for days, as in one move she’d not only secured much needed supplies, but also favor in the court. Lord Florian was not only the nephew of a prominent power in Orlais but also well-respected amongst his peers. A passionate Andrastian and semi-famous poet on the side (semi-famous if only for his title), he could weave words to anyone in his presence like no other.

It did also help that he’d spent most of his time looking at the Inquisitor with something closer to wonder than reverence, and at some point even whispered to her, “He is positively  _human_.” The Inquisitor had played his polite part as the humble, not-at-all-savage qunari (“Actually, I’d be called Tal-Vashoth. We’re free from that nasty Qun.” “How  _fascinating!_ ”) and Josephine cleverly extracted written promises.

When he wanted to be, Inquisitor Adaar could be a reckoning force. However, it also meant he could be completely difficult with negotiations with almost no reason at all. It reminded the noblewoman too much of dealing with her younger siblings, and all her pleased thoughts dissipated as she remembered the fact they’d been waiting for the qunari to arrive for half an hour now.

Shifting her weight where she stood, Josephine idly toyed with her necklaces as quietly as she could. It was a habit her mother had spent her entire lifetime attempted to discipline out of her, as to play with one’s jewelry so loudly was considered rude, but in the face of her anxiety, those lessons all but dissipated.

Off to the side, holding most of Leliana’s attention was a messenger. Her name was Lydia Hammich, one of the surviving lot that had been the spymaster’s Denerim informants who joined up when the Inquisition was formed. With the entire relocation of the Inquisition and sealing of the Breach, she had stayed at her post as one of Cullen’s soldiers but spent most of her time as their personal carrier pigeon due to the loss of use of her sword arm from Corypheus’ assault. If she was resentful of it, it didn’t show. Josephine favored her most out of all their messengers, privately believing she preferred her, too, considering the amount of times she’d stayed to enjoy tea with her.

“… all right, Lady Josephine?” Cullen questioned, raising a brow. “You’ve been spacing out.”

“Oh, I’m s’sorry,” Josephine spoke quickly, turning bright red at her rudeness. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m just….”

“Concerned for the cheese?” the Commander offered helpfully, giving a small smile.

“Obviously,” Lydia intoned, looking unimpressed like always with the man.

Cullen cleared his throat. “Right. Anyway. Has your report on the Venatori come in, Leliana?”

“Just before the arrival of the wagons, thankfully. We’ve got all of their notable locations in the Hinterlands and Exalted Plains.” the spymaster nodded, glancing up from the map laid out in front of them. Her deft hands laid out the markers in all the specific locations she mentioned, ready for whenever the Inquisitor arrived. “And unfortunately, many other requests requiring the Inquisitor’s approval came with it. If it’s worth anything, the situation on Lydes is going smoothly.”

“He’s going to be so stressed,” Josephine muttered to herself. “And when he’s like that, he avoids work even more…”

“Your faith in me is quite inspiring,” a voice said dryly from the doorway.

In her worrying, she’d neglected to notice his arrival and squeaked an, “Inquisitor!” when he stepped forward.

 “You know she’s right,” Cullen remarked, looking at him in mock annoyance. “If it wasn’t for your uncanny ability to hide whenever work piles up, Hammich would be out of a job.”

The woman mentioned grunted and said nothing more, staring straight ahead dutifully as she always did.

“Maker knows she deals with enough of your ‘messages’ already, Commander. But enough of that. Let us begin,” Leliana said quickly, clearly amused. They all nodded at her, bracing themselves for the long day ahead. “All right. Most interesting situation first so we can quell our curiosity, yes? Status report on our guest, Hammich.”

“Still unconscious, ser,” the woman responded automatically, nodding to Leliana and the Inquisitor. “The healer says it’ll be that way for another day or two, and if he wakes up, don’t think it’ll be completely lucid, ser. Drunken state besides, he’s suffering from a concussion, severe dehydration and malnutrition as well as minor injuries. He must have been on the side of the road for quite some time before he somehow ended up on the wagon. Likely somewhere cold, from his frostbite wounds.”

Josephine let out an undecipherable sound, fingers clenched so hard around her board that her knuckles were white. Her disbelief at the situation clearly had not faded. “Word has been sent to the Lord from his drivers. A stray found on larger shipments isn’t unheard, but there were only a dozen wagons at most leading straight to the Inquisition. He will have just as many questions as us, I’m sure.”

“It wasn’t the driver’s fault, Lady Josephine,” Lydia responded immediately, almost gently. Her severe face softened as she looked to the noblewoman. “According to him, they were accosted on the road by the rebel mages. Apparently there were – “ She breathed in through her nose, eyes closing for a moment. “They had to find routes around all the bodies, my lady. Alistair was likely mistaken for carnage and snuck on when they weren’t looking. He sends his sincerest apologies for letting it happen.”

“Their numbers seem to be only growing!” Josephine looked more frenzied, if possible. “Besides that whole debacle, we still have the fact that it wasn’t just any old drunkard.”

“I think I’d like to talk to the driver as well, just to clear some things up – don’t look at me like that, Josie. I just have a few questions. He’ll leave relatively unscathed.”

“If you’re certain,” Josephine sighed, knowing better than to question Leliana. “I have a few concerns myself about this situation. Mostly regarding the morals…”

“Not that I don’t feel sorry for the man, but…” Cullen began uncertainly, looking between them all with a frown. “Everyone seems to be buzzing about his presence and it’s causing more of a ruckus than I believe it should. Is it really that big a deal? He hasn’t been mentioned for nearly a decade, and the last I saw of him, he was getting dragged out of Kirkwall by Arl Teagan.”

“ _Kirkwall_?” The Inquisitor repeated incredulously, speaking up for the first time since the topic was brought up. “What was he doing  _there_?”

Cullen shrugged stiffly, looking slightly uncomfortable at the mention of the place and the attention for it. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I don’t truly know myself how he even managed to get there. I was just present when the Arl had his men help him out of the tavern. He was barely lucid and couldn’t walk two feet.”

“Regardless of his past travels and escapades, it doesn’t change who he is.” Leliana’s voice was firm as she looked between them, final gaze resting on the Vashoth. “Despite the fact he publicly renounced his claim to the throne, he remains a threat to Anora as a mascot to potential rebellion. His last words in court before exile were death threats to Warden Loghain, Anora’s father, and he’s on bad terms with the Wardens. He just barely left the Landsmeet alive. He is a dead man if we leave him on his own.”

“He’s also good gossip material,” Josephine mentioned with a frown. Negative gossip was never attention worth having in her eyes. It never not ended in disaster and, more often than not, a mess she was left to clean up. “Within the first hour of word getting out, I heard many tales being spun, all detailing very…unique situations. It is clear, to the Fereldens here at least, that he is a big deal to them. Whether that is a good thing has yet to be apparent.”

“He’s survived this far, and he’s not completely on his own,” Cullen pointed out, looking just as irritated at the mention of more rumors. “Look, I’m not trying to throw him out to the wolves, especially with the state of things. He did a lot of good during the Blight and I was privileged to witness some of it. He was a good man. But that’s my point – he  _was_ a good man. It’s been years since anyone even thought of him, and if they did, it wasn’t with nice things in mind. Arl Teagan is seeking refuge with his family in Denerim, and I’m certain he’d like his nephew back.”

“Queen Anora would also have every right to have her suspicions if she heard of us housing him. Luckily, I already began working towards working with his presence here to keep tensions from rising, though perhaps I should reconsider contacting my cousin…” Josephine murmured. “His presence here, however long it’s been since those events, and despite his lack of claim to the throne, could cause controversy…”

“Since when did we care about that?” Inquisitor Adaar remarked, raising a brow. “That’s all the Inquisition is.”

“No thanks to you,” Cullen said dryly. “It helps no one to declare not only the lack of divinity but also lack of anything divine in front of everyone who followed you for those reasons.”

“Truly? I thought you followed me because of my good looks, Commander. I’ll be sure to don a ceremonial flower crown later to make up for it.”

Cullen let out a noncommittal noise.

“Well, it would not do to send him back as he is now, that much we agree,” Josephine said. “Lydia has made it quite clear that, while he is not close to death, he is still in quite a deplorable state. It’s been months since the mages overthrew Redcliffe and we’ve reason to believe he’s been on his own since then. We should at least care for him till he’s ready for travel and we can find the men to escort him.”

“That is sensible,” Cullen sighed, still not happy. “Still. Refugees have been steadily pouring in every month, though. Can we spare the men? He’s not bleeding out or dying, but calls for just as much attention from existence alone. People are dying out there.”

“I’m aware, Commander.” Josephine said stonily, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “However, the politics cann _ot_ be ignored or more people will die.”

“We’ll manage,” The Inquisitor said somberly. “He may end up playing a part in negotiation with the mages.”

“Are we still considering that?” Cullen frowned. “I still think we should try for the Templars.”

“And I disagreed.”

Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s your call, Inquisitor.”

“Now that that’s been taken care of, we can discuss our other important matters, such as preparation for your journey.” Leliana declared. There was nothing innocent about the expression on her face as she turned to the Vashoth. “Before that, though, I need your approval regarding certain people. Regarding your previous stance regarding Caralina as potential Duchess…”

~*~

The Inquisitor hadn’t had time to actually  _meet_ Alistair till it was close for him to leave Skyhold. Granted, he wasn’t sure if he could truly say he’d truly met the man since he’d be unconscious the whole time, but Flissa had been very insistent that he take a look at him before he left.

The room he’d been placed in was where most of those too hurt or sick to move were placed. In the belly of Skyhold’s lower levels, corridors of rooms were carved out. They had been empty except the cobwebs when they’d first arrived, but now sported straw mattresses and the odd chamber pot, occasionally decorated with offerings left by the sisters. For the most part, the latter was restricted to the rooms with long-time residents who were old or too crippled to move on their own. Though the rooms were small enough to seem constricted, nearly each one had a window that looked out to the snowy cliffs and sudden drop off the mountain.

Flissa had complained heartily about the atmosphere, as she’d been used to the bustle and loudness of her tavern and before that, Denerim, but it didn’t stop her diligent work. She’d thrown herself into her work with the Chantry as she had in her other endeavors, and while she was not the most skilled healer or always knew the right words for the faithful, she was reliable.

“I cleaned him up a bit,” the woman said proudly, wringing her hands as she looked to the Vashoth for approval. “Not much, yeah, but he looks finer now.”

On the lumpy mattress below, the man who’d been the heart of Skyhold’s gossip lay sleeping. He had long, strong features, sunken slightly from years of drinking. His body was thick from a soft life, his hair shoulder-length and frizzed, and face sporting a closely cropped, discolored beard. He was unnaturally pale with dark circles and made a raspy, sick sound every time he took breath.

Overall, if the Inquisitor hadn’t trusted her word, he would’ve severely doubted Alistair was much “finer now”.

“There wasn’t much I could do with the hair,” Flissa admitted, noticing where his eyes had roamed when he frowned. “It was all matted and… eugh.” She made a disgusted noise. “I chopped off as much as I dared, same with the beard. I figured…” She trailed off, sounding less sure of herself. “I don’t know. My husband always said a man was nothing without his hair. He was a proud man… I’m sure he’d wake up in a tizzy, least I could do ‘smake it less shocking for him, ye know?”

“You did a fine job,” Adaar affirmed, putting a hand on her shoulder and smiling. “There was no one better suited. With hope, he’ll wake soon and can thank you himself.”

“Oh, he’s woken before!” Flissa said eagerly. “He’s not quite…there. Just mumbles stuff I can’t understand. He’ll drink and can handle soup, but ends up knockin’ right out after. I think he’s just recovering.”

“Must’ve been quite the journey, with that concussion,” the Vashoth murmured, stepping forward to crouch down by Alistair. Up close, he could make out more details. Most of the blond’s body was covered and tucked tightly by a woolen blanket, but his face peered up from beneath it, looking disturbed even in sleep. “Too many drinks, maybe?”

Flissa frowned, remembering the few words she could make out during his outbursts.  _Break. Blood. Dark. Black. Blood. Broken. Calling. Duncan._

“Maybe,” she said softly.

~*~

Winds swept harshly through the stables, causing the loose wooden panels to rattle where they were nailed. Underneath the Inquisitor's massive hand, a red hart buck shuddered, snorting as its eyes widened in panic.

"Hush," the man soothed, fingers feather-light as he rubbed in the direction of its fur. It continued to huff and snort loudly, tense, but made no further motion to bolt. "Hush, Raspberry. You're fine, friend. It's just the wind."

He could hardly blame the animal for being as on edge as it was, considering the past week; insane demons leading corrupted Templars were hardly pleasant additions to any sudden, involuntary journey, but were becoming an unfortunate fact of life. Standing where he was, head bowed close to the hart's back as they both took shallow breaths, he closed his eyes and collected himself.

As he knew it would, his right hand tingled. It felt like friendly fire, as though a nerve was struck in his arm and the non-malicious sensations traveled through his body. He'd tried explaining it countless times, to the curious, the scared, the skeptical, but mostly, to Varric.

"Freaky stuff that's never been seen before is always a best-seller," he'd said, a promising glint in his eye. "Especially when it's real."

"It's...still hard to describe." Inquisitor Adaar’s brows had furrowed, lips tugging down as he thought. "It's like describing how magic feels to someone who's never had it."

"That's when you make up stuff to fill in the blanks. Didn't I teach you that?"

If he had to explain it as simply as possible, he'd say it felt like a spider crawling up his arm. One he always knew was there, deep down, and when it decided to poke its head out. Sometimes it came out when he wanted it to, but in truth, those moments felt more like coincidence than anything.

To have his body invaded by a foreign magic he had no true control over was disconcerting. He could only suppose he was lucky that circumstances put him on a pedestal rather than a chopping block -- something that was not unfamiliar to a merc of his…stature – but it did not make the entire situation less bizarre.

Corypheus’ voice rang in his head still, echoing with words that refused to leave him every time he used his new powers. The Mark felt different now, more deeply ingrained into his veins like his own magic was. He could almost feel those skeletal hands squeezing his wrist as it held him effortlessly…

He pulled his hand off the hart's flank before it had a chance to flash emerald, knowing that regardless of intention, it would just make the animal even more skittish. Harts were intelligent, sturdy beasts, more reliable as a mount than general halla. Their advanced perception, however, has them on constant alert. The beast had no reason to fear green flashes of magic until a pride demon came barreling out of it.

"Curious how them elves sent a buck to  _you_  of all people." Sera's amused voice carried into the small shelter. She was sitting cross-legged on a tree stump across from Eli, tossing a half-eaten apple up into the air boredly. "Lookit, it's so huge... fits you perfect, I guess. Still. That's it. You're big, horned...like the beast, 'suppose, but not the kind they _like_."

"They don't hate all of us," Adaar said easily, leaning gently against the stall. As much as he trusted their men, he doubted the quickly constructed thing would hold his entire weight. "Just the mean ones."

"Right, so they just send pets to all the nice ones." Sera rolled her eyes. "C'mon, don't play coy -- why'd they send you a beastie? I don't remember doin' anythin' for them."

"It was a gift from an old friend," Elii said airily, avoiding Sera's gaze casually as he glances back at the hart.

"Right. Who just happens to lead the elfy-elves."

"Sort of. Who just happens to apprentice for the leader of the Dalish. Yes."

Sera looked close to throwing her apple at him, but refrained for the hart's sake. It was already eying her warily, and she was sore at its rejection of her attempts at petting it, so he knew it was somewhat of an effort and appreciated it.

“Are we goin’ to be meeting with them? I’d rather fight another giant…”

The girl shuddered as she remembered their battle with the creature on the Storm Coast. She’d been the only one standing and just  _barely_ survived until the Chargers showed up. Adaar hadn’t been conscious to witness it, regrettably, but she claimed she’d managed just fine and killed the giant on her own. The story she’d constructed was too hard to follow through, but it lined up with all the peculiar spots they’d found her arrows imbedded in the huge corpse. The Bull had been too amused by her to say otherwise when asked.

“Perhaps. For now, however, we go to Redcliffe.”

“Great! Mages! Even better!”

She made a loud aggravated noise and this time didn’t hesitate to throw the apple. With expected precision, it hit and rebounded off his horns at the same time Raspberry brayed.

~*~

Flissa continued her vigil next to Alistair as he slept. She was laid against the cool stone wall, grinding herbs in the heavy bowl in her lap and letting her thoughts wander as she relaxed.

Occasionally, the man next to her shifted in his sleep and babbled gibberish and words she was sure meant something but couldn’t decipher. It did not matter; the Inquisitor was pleased by her interest and care in Alistair, so she remained until the sun had set and left the sky looking bruised.

Miles away, the Inquisitor set up camp with his companions. Skyhold began to settle down for the night, resting for the new day. Flissa left at the insistence of one of the night shift guards, yawning before she went and whispering good night to Alistair.

When the door to the room closed and the man’s only companion left was the wind howling at the windows, a figure shifted from within the darkness.

 _“Black blood,”_  the hunched spirit whispered hauntingly.  _“It Calls. The poison Calls. You never said it would be like this, Duncan. It hurts. I don’t want to die.”_

“Hurts,” Alistair choked out in his sleep, echoing the haunting words.

Cole crouched, gasping softly when his fingers touched the man’s face. Flashes of memory and pain slammed into him, and the blood in his human body rushed as though he could feel it boil under his skin.

“I’ll take the pain away now,” the spirit murmured. “You can sleep.”

 Below him, Alistair’s fitful stirring ceased.

~*~

 **_R_ ** _edcliffe._

“Is that all of ‘em?” One of the mages laughed obnoxiously, shoving a whimpering girl through the open gates. “Look at them cry. Poor, poor peasants!”

The rest of the young mages surrounded him joined in his laughing, forcing Connor to look away. The backs of the crowd, hunched and defeated, reminded him too well of the rebellion’s first journey to Redcliffe. He knew the faces of those who were killed or exiled. Perhaps not the name, or the family, but he made sure to memorize the faces.

They were his people, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

~*~

 **_S_ ** _kyhold._

“Could someone tell me just  _why_ we’re playing nursemaid?” Layla wasn’t whining  _yet_  but she sounded dangerously close. The wispy elf was glowering at her brother’s back as they walked down the stone steps deeper into Skyhold’s belly, heavily considering crossing her arms despite the fact Alris wouldn’t see it. She settled for blowing air out of her nose. “The healers were doing a fine job.  _Flissa_ was doing a fine job. Remember her? The one originally assigned to this?”

“Flissa and the healers could use a break, especially when there are people who need attention more. And you were stupid enough to make Cyrus hate your guts to the point he sentenced you to sick-sitting.” Alris replied easily. She could  _hear_ him smiling as he walked. Bastard. “Besides, I want to know just what all the fuss about this man is. I’m curious.”

“Oh, damn your curiosity,” Layla muttered without any real anger. “It’s gotten us into trouble so many times before and you insist on heading it anyway, but  _nooo – I’m_ the troublemaker! He’s a drunken fool reliving his glory days and regretting all of his mistakes. What else is there to know?”

Alris frowned and look back at her over his shoulder. “What’s got your knickers in a twist? You put yourself in this position.”

Layla glanced away, instead admiring the stones imbedded in the wall and plethora of cobwebs across the ceiling. “Nothing. Are we there yet?”

“No, not – wait. Yes. Here we are.” He stopped abruptly at a door to his right and topped on the wood.

There was a whispered response of, “Come in,” and Alris opened it.

In the middle of the small room was a line of straw mattresses, all empty except for one on the far left. Next to it, an older Chantry sister sat, eyes closed in silent prayer as her hands laid on a man’s arm.

That was Alistair. It took Alris a second to process his appearance, and when he did, he felt a pang of pity. At least he looked relatively better from when he’d been brought in…

He approached the sister quietly, gesturing to the bowl of warm water in his hands and the towel draped on his arm. She nodded and showed him an empty spot next to the mattress, stepping back as he crouched to place it down.

“I knew him,” she said after a long moment of awkward silence. Layla, who felt highly uncomfortable in the presence of one of the sisters, took this as a cue to break from Alris’ side and sit on the bed across from Alistair’s, far away from conversation. “Before, when he was just a child. He was living in the Chantry. Meant to be a Templar one day.”

Her face was downturned with thought, eyes closing in remembrance. She looked as though she was mourning someone recently deceased instead of recalling a memory. “He was a bit of a wild case, but always very sweet.” She chuckled quietly. “He used to sing during choir so loudly that he made one of the sisters almost faint from anger…”

“I will take over your vigil now, Sister,” Alris offered in a hushed tone, putting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched at the sudden contact, but relaxed slowly and nodded. “You can leave.”

“Yes,” she exhaled, looking suddenly very tired. “I…think it’s time I return to my prayers privately. Thank you, serah.”

Layla pointedly ignored the wary glance she shot her as she left the room.

“Well. That was…interesting.”

Alris wasn’t listening, instead hovering over Alistair with such a severe frown Layla was scared he’d lash out suddenly. 

“I don’t get it,” she heard him mumble, before turning to pull the towel off his arm and dunk it in the water. He wrung out any excess water before placing it on Alistair’s forehead. Since they entered the room the man hadn’t stirred once, laying as though he were dead. If he hadn’t been breathing shallowly Layla would have thought him so from his sunken, sickly appearance.

The scout sighed before heaving herself up from the bed and walking to the unconscious man’s other side. Looking down, she immediately understood Alris’s sudden concern. There was no proper word to describe how awful the man looked. When he’d fallen onto the ground and off the cart initially, she was distracted more with the excitement of his presence and hadn’t bothered to really take a look at him. A drunk was a drunk, after all. No need for proper inspection to confirm that.

 “Hmm,” she hummed, attempting nonchalance. Her entire body was stiff with disgust at her close proximity. “That’s…quite a…beard.”

“That’s quite an everything,” Alris mumbled. “He could do with a shave. Flissa kept too much hair…”

“I suppose I’ll have to do it, won’t I?” Layla gave a long-suffering sigh. “Ugh. I hate this so much. So,  _so_  much. Not worth kicking him at _all_.”

“You’re too impulsive and don’t listen at  _all_ ,” Alris huffed. He was seconds away from launching into lecturing mode, an unfortunate occurrence that had followed her since childhood. She was an adult now, working beside him as an equal, and bristled at the unsaid implications. He was not Harding or Cyrus or the bloody Inquisitor. “You put yourself in this position. If Mum were alive – “

Of course. Always one for guilt-trips, her brother.

“Yes, well, she isn’t, is she? You –!”

Alistair, for the first time since they entered, moaned suddenly from below and cut off whatever Layla was about to say. Both the elves looked down at him expectantly with wide eyes, watching for his next words as his eyes fluttered open.

“Eurgh,” was all that came out before he promptly vomited all over Layla.

~*~

“Here you go.”

Alistair took the wooden cup from the elf’s hand with slight desperation, ignoring the way his finger shook as he gulped down every last drop. He exhaled, hacking slightly as his stomach lurched.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, looking between the two strangers warily. Alarm bells were going off in his mind, but his head felt heavy and stuffed with cotton balls. He couldn’t think straight, between the undeniable cravings making his mouth dry to the ache that gripped every inch of his body.

In his mind, the last thing he remembered was that grotesque, corrupted form of Teagan engulfing him in darkness. He couldn’t process what was going on here and now properly, still caught in the aftershocks and whispers. They were gone for now, but…every so often, when he blinked quickly due to his dry eyes, he could almost feel those voices creeping up after him, singing softly…

“Alistair, isn’t it?” the male elf spoke first, drawing his attention from his the cup in his lap. He blinked up at him blankly, studying the man’s features.

He was incredibly tall for an elf, Alistair thought. He had a long face and was well-built. Though his face was still a bit blurry to him, he could make out strange markings on his face. Dalish, maybe?

Shuddering, he glanced away for a moment, feeling his stomach twist again.

“Yes,” he said, unsure of where he stood with this stranger. He certainly hadn’t remembered any of the Dalish greetings he’d picked up once upon a time. “And…you are…?”

“Alris,” the elf replied mechanically, giving him a worn smile. “The girl who screamed your ear off earlier is my twin sister Layla.”

In the corner of the room, Alistair spotted a female elf for the first time. She was glaring hatefully at him as she scrubbed her coat with water from a basin, and stuck up her nose with a scoff when he looked at her.

“Why am I here?” Alistair asked Alris softly, looking into his eyes. They were… brown? His eyes felt dry and strained as he tried to focus on the man’s face. “I don’t…the last thing I remember was the mages and…  _Maker_ , where’s Teagan?”

There was a panicky, hysterical edge to his voice now. The girl in the corner of the room who had been aggressively scrubbing at her coat and avoiding her gaze paused in her ministrations and glanced up at him with an undeniably curious look. Her neck craned as she strained to hear his suddenly hushed voice.

“Is he – “

“Arl Teagan is fine,” Alris said soothingly, making sure each word was clear and firm. “He and his family are currently in Denerim, safe from the chaos, just as you are.”

Layla snorted to herself, ignoring Alris’s look and returning to grumbling at her coat.

“I…”

“Alistair – “

“How do you know my name?” Alistair demanded, fingers tightening on his bed sheets. “Where am I and why am I here?"

“You were found rolling into our keep on a wagon full of cheese,” Layla drawled, not looking at him. “We know you because you were identified by an old friend, who somehow recognized you despite your current appearance. You are with us in the Frostbacks. Sorry about the bruise, by the way. I kicked you.”

Alistair continued to stare at her for a moment before sucking in a breath. His hand unconsciously went to the tender spot on his cheek and he winced. “The Frostbacks? So far?”

“Yes,” Alris sighed. He hadn’t planned on being the one to break the news, but there was no changing that. “Alistair… what’s the last thing you remember?”

The blonde’s throat constricted shut, successfully silencing any words from coming out.

Alris watched him patiently for another few minutes before he felt comfortable enough to open his mouth.

“Screaming,” Alistair whispered, words so soft Alris had to strain to hear him. “So…many… I couldn’t save any of them. T-then there were… darkspawn? And people dying.” He looked away, gritting his teeth. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Darkspawn?” Alris repeated quietly to himself, but nodded, perplexed at the man’s explanations. He stood suddenly, startling the blonde. “Sorry. Well, Alistair, the Inquisition has extended a welcome to you to stay at Skyhold for as long as it is deemed necessary. I am sorry about what you’ve gone through, but can assure you protection for as long as you remain here.”

If anything, the man looked more confused. “The – the what? Inquisition?”

“Yes. We’re – Alistair?”

 Alistair leaned back against his bed, body starting to feel gradually heavier until he was struggling to keep his eyelids open. His words slurred slightly as he struggled with his words, all of it coming out as gibberish as felt heavy all of a sudden.

The figures in front of him began to distort, their voices sounding muffled, and he tried opening his mouth to speak again. Nothing came out but a gurgle.

“Oh,  _gross,_ ” Layla muttered. “Can we get Flissa? I’m already sick of being here…”

 “No, you’re going to stay.” Alris said sternly. “ _I’m_ going to alert Lady Nightingale at once. I’ll leave you to rest, Alistair. You’ve been filled up with a lot of potions…”

Alistair said nothing, already fast asleep with a frown.

~*~

~*~

Layla was curled on a straw mattress in the right corner of the room, looking extremely put-out and grumbling at nothing in particular. Her coat had been laid out in front of the window with hope the sun would quicken the drying, but with her luck it would instead frost over.

Sighing, she raked her fingers through her hair and shuddered against a sudden chill in the room. Without her thick outer layer, the thin cotton she usually wore underneath was useless against the weather. She made another face at Alistair despite the fact he was too deeply asleep to notice or care. It was his fault, after all. Honestly, she had been willing to overlook his initial first impression on the cheese wagon, but he just had to go and ruin his already tarnished reputation  _and_ her clothes.

Where she was from, she couldn’t remember wearing a coat a day in her life. They probably wouldn’t have been able to afford one, granted, but it didn’t change the fact she hadn’t really  _needed_  one. Her home was always warm and welcome, the air draping across her skin acting as all the clothing she’d ever need. The humidity, however, had always made her hair frizz into an untamable ball, but at least Alris suffered from the same fate. If it ever got too unbearable they’d just run into the nearest river or even sprint to the docks. Running away from angry fishermen had been one of their favorite past times – she could still remember Alris dragging her against the current, laughing in her ear as the captain of a boat cursed at them.

She felt her heart tighten with longing and sniffed, wrapping her arms tighter around her legs. She and Alris’ quick thinking and strong limbs had been the only reason they survived. They grew up running through the mangroves and marshes and swimming in the ocean on the roughest of days. Harding hadn’t known them personally, but trusted their roots; the dwarf herself had been nothing more than a goat herder before the Inquisition. That’s what Alris was so enraptured with, Layla supposed. The Inquisition made you bigger than you were. It didn’t matter where you came from, only that you were there and wanted to kick ass for some greater purpose.

It didn’t mean it had been her first choice, and if she knew she’d be down here watching some fool and getting vomit on herself she knew she would’ve never joined despite her brother’s insistence. It was always Alris making those decisions. He was bigger and older by half an hour and even if she was always the one blamed for trouble, he was always the one dragging her to it.

Harding had found them in the splintered remains of their home and escorted them to the nearest camp, but it was Alris who refused to stay there. Even when he’d been written off as too injured and in shock to know what he was doing, he’d dragged Layla along and tracked the agents until they dropped unconscious at their camp. They’d been so impressed at their dedication and skill there was no question what jobs they’d be recruited to. Alris had been thrilled for the weeks following; Layla had just been glad to be clothed and fed, which was something Harding always made sure of.

Layla grimaced at the pang of shame that hit her. She honestly didn’t mean to always cause trouble for Harding. The dwarf was easygoing and smiled the most out of all the scouts, and was always there for advice or just to lend and ear. She’d been awkward about training Layla at first, as she hadn’t had any proper training herself, but fell into the teaching role quite easily once work started pouring in.

Now, Layla wondered if she’d ever be allowed to work with her again. Was she stuck with Cyrus now? Or worse –  _Corporal Vale?_

She shuddered, remembering the fact that those who were sent to the Corporal slept only in bed rolls. Not tents.  _Bedrolls,_ right there in the wilderness and under the sickly sky. They also deal with more hands-on work with the refugees and the last thing she wanted was to be some farmer’s carrier pigeon, locating lost druffalo or digging up weeds.

“Mmph…That tickles…” came the sudden murmuring. Alistair continued to stir in his sleep, much more than he had when they’d first arrived. It said something about his condition, though, since before he’d been still and silent as death. She vaguely recalled one of the healers remarking that the thrashing and sickness was a good sign in recovery, signaling the body was fighting and, for the most part, winning.

‘Winning’ all over her clothes, maybe. Layla gagged in disgust as the smell wafted to her and shot Alistair another annoyed look. She knew she was being childish and ridiculous. This man had nothing to do with anyone’s misery but his own and she was sitting here blaming him.  _Knowing_ her behavior was ridiculous didn’t mean she planned to stop it, however; as far as she was concerned, she was still stuck down here playing babysitter for who knows how long. Perhaps for the remainder of the war – it wasn’t as though her luck would grant her better.

She stood up, stretching out her arms before walking carefully over to Alistair. He twitched when she neared but never showed real signs of waking up. At least he hadn’t started snoring – she’d heard from Flissa that he’d do it occasionally, right when she was least expecting it and scare her.

Layla snorted at the image. The human woman was as jumpy as they come and the elf had a hard time believing she’d been one of Haven’s survivors. Kneeling, she reluctantly pulled the cloth of Alistair’s head and wet it again in the half-full bowl by his head. She watched as the water droplets fell down his face and caught in his facial hair. He was starting to _look_  a little healthier now, not just act it, if that was possible. His face was regaining proper color and he no longer looked constipated all the time. He still smelled dreadful.

…Wait. Would she be expected to bathe him too?

Layla sat back on her haunches and covered her face, groaning slightly. When would her blasted brother get back?!

 

~*~

“Thank you, Alris,” Lady Nightingale said meaningfully. The elf before her stood tall and proud, beaming from the woman’s praise. “You handled his awakening very well. He’s a bit delicate as the potions work through his system and he recovers from his condition. I am gladdened to hear it’s going smoothly.”

“Of course, my lady,” Alris said, dipping his head respectfully. “My sister watches over him as we speak. He looks very different from when we first found him and I am sure he’ll be back to normal soon. The Inquisition will see him cared for until we can end this war.”

Something shifted in Leliana’s face, hardening as she turned away. One of the many crows that surrounded her cawed shrilly before jumping onto her forearm and hooking its claws for balance. It nudged her for attention and she indulged it, petting its head idly with gentle strokes.

“As normal as he’ll ever be at this point …” she murmured, almost to herself. Alris shifted awkwardly, arms still held behind his back as he waited.

Her eyes were trained on him suddenly, bright and demanding. She had the look and air of a woman truly made for serving a Divine, easily wringing out information from a simple scout such as him. “Tell me, Alris. Have you ever lost someone to themselves?”

It was a broad statement that included many faces and scenarios passing through his mind. His parents were a distant memory that he no longer thought of and, unwilling to dwell on that subject, he responded embarrassingly quickly.

“Err… I don’t think so.” At Leliana’s disappointed look, he quickly straightened and blurted, “But I feel that way, sometimes… with my sister. Layla. She just… does things and I can’t control her like when we were kids. She’s…”

“She’s your sister,” Leliana said helpfully, giving a slight smile. “Your responsibility. I hear she’s not always easy to work with.”

“That’s the least of it,” Alris huffed, feeling more confident in his words. “That girl will do whatever she wants, damn the consequences.”

Leliana’s smile slipped away into her usual blank, cold look. “That is the problem with some of the people in our lives.” Her focus drifted back to the bird on her arm. It flailed and shrieked a little as she lifted her arm, claws sliding between the chainmail on her armor for better grip. Alris winced in sympathy but Leliana did not react to the pain. “We cannot control others, only ourselves and our actions. Others will do whatever they wish, regardless of who is affected. And then we are left to watch them fall because of it.”

Her last words were spoken with clear disgust. It was not unlike how she appeared when informed of a spy’s betrayal. He knew the topic had nothing to do with his sister and everything to do with Alistair; he knew of the spymaster’s involvement in the last Blight and that, clearly, Alistair had been a valued companion at one point.

Still, he had a hard time believing someone like Leliana would ever have trouble controlling others. Wasn’t that her job? He knew she must have her fingers in every honey pot across Thedas and his awe only strengthened in that moment, along with his curiousity.

“Will you…come to see our guest soon?” Alris asked neutrally, face carefully blank. “Now that he has awoken?”

Leliana flexed her fingers as she watched her crow. It looked back at her with equal interest, intelligence glittering in its beady eyes. “Yes,” she said firmly, turning back to Alris and shaking the bird off her arm. It swooped low as it left, causing Alris to duck slightly “Soon. Not now, as he will be in no state to handle my presence. Until then, Layla will continue to care for him under Flissa’s guidance. If helping those who need it is to be seen as her ‘punishment’, she may as well gather useful skills from it.”

“Of course, milady,” Alris said and saluted her. “I’m to leave on the next scouting patrol with Harding, but the others will continue to report to you as usual.”

She nodded to him and turned back to the papers strewn across her table. Taking it as a clear dismissal, Alris bowed once more before departing.

Behind him, under the watchful gaze of her crows, Leliana sighed heavily before crumpling and shoving her papers away. Her arms rested on the desk she leaned over, supporting all her weight as she let her head drop.

~*~

There was a loud thump, followed by a distinct sound of something spilling.  _Something_  like flour, which was one of the most needed ingredients in the kitchen  _and_ necessary for the next few meals!

Marge refused to turn around and instead closed her eyes and counted to ten. The rest of the kitchen was deathly quiet, waiting with baited breath for the moment she’d turn around and breathe fire. She was exercising restraint none of them knew she had, but she only knew that if she continued to scream herself hoarse at every stupid servant who messed up that she’d only end up killing herself. And then where would Skyhold be? In absolute ruins!

The Inquisition was fine and dandy, what with its large horned men and mages and Orlesians, but there was one fact that held true no matter what: soldiers needed sustenance. There would be no marching to battle against a  _rabbit_ let alone a mad darkspawn if everyone had empty bellies. Loyalty was nice enough when three meals a day came with it, otherwise all of the refugee camps would have gone mad with hunger by now. Power was key, and food was power.

That was, anyway, what Marge murmured to herself. They were statements dressed up as reassurances but only acted to buy time before she turned around. There was no knowing if it actually helped her nerves or made them worse, but she was reaching her breaking point.

“You,” she said lowly as she turned around. Before her was an elf cowering so low she may as well have pressed herself into the flour spilled across the floor. The others took an unconscious step back at the look on her face, but for her own health, she kept her voice soft and even. “What have you done?”

“I – I – “ the elf seemed dumbstruck at the fact Marge wasn’t screaming. It was as though the idea scared her further, and she began to tear up. Her hands, white and powdery as they trembled, went to cover her face and managed to dust the rest of her head with flour. “I was – I just have – “

The rest of her body started to shake violently. She let out a small choked sound as she fell on her knees. “I’m sorry.”

“She shakes,” one of the elves dared to speak. Marge’s attention snapped to them, frustrated at the other elf’s reaction. “Since the attack. She was grabbed during the fight, and… She just shakes, ser.”

Marge exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright.  _You,_ ” she looked above her fingers and sharply at the still-crying elf, who nodded quickly. “No more carryin’ things. Can you knead?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then you’ll be helpin’ me with tonight’s dinner, and for every meal till then. And  _you – “_ Marge’s gaze rested on the elf who spoke out. Her arms crossed and she raised a brow at him. “Since you’re so knowledgeable and decided not to do anything before letting a bag of flour be wasted,  _you_ can carry the bags now. Got it?” She frowned when she noticed no one had moved. She took a deep breath. “NO LOITERING! GO WORK!”

She rolled her eyes when the male elf helped his companion up, mumbling something to her. She nodded, or at least tried to, and leaned on him as he led her away.

“Typical elves,” Marge grumbled under her breath with a scowl as she stomped through the kitchen. The hateful looks sent her way weren’t lost on her, but she couldn’t give a rat’s ass. There was a routine set in place and food to be made and she had no time for niceties or pity. Both of those were things that wasted time and she knew just how bad for morale it would be if the bastards sauntering around upstairs went hungry.

“Nettie,” Marge called as she neared the stoves. Her distaste was clear whenever she neared them, as they were the shabbiest and most awfully put together set of pots and cauldrons she had ever witnessed. She was certain some of the smaller ones were used once upon a time to brew potions and loathed to use them considering their unpredictable nature with stews (she was almost certain there was a reason not to reuse potion cauldrons for cooking), but beggars can’t be choosers. Still, would it hurt to invest in better cookware? She severely doubts anything else in Skyhold gets used quite as much besides the chamber pots.

“Chef,” Nettie greeted coolly as the human woman approached her. She side-eyed her between her chopping as she dropped meat cubes into the large pot. “You’re a right bitch, you know that?”

“How’s the stew coming along?” Marge asked, peering into the pot with an unimpressed look. She had to prop herself against the wooden counters in order to see anything properly considering the size of the thing. “I don’t see any onions…”

“Foreign dignitary visiting,” Nettie said, reaching over to an assortment of tiny jars and plucking one. She took the top off and scooped up a large handful of red-brown, sharp smelling spice before throwing it into the pot. “Allergic to onions, so I’m adding more spice to make up for it.”

“Hmph,” Marge said, staring down the concoction for another moment before stepping back. “Adequate, I guess. Ferelden palate is too bland. Get more of the herbs in the garden.”

“There are no herbs in the garden.”

“Then find someone who has herbs,” Marge snapped. “The Inquisition doesn’t keep you here to avoid using your brain as much as possible.”

“Perhaps I’ll check the pantry,” Nettie said airily. “I heard there are some nice things in there now.”

“No.”

Nettie’s face twisted with a frown and she faced Marge fully for the first time. “And why not?” she spat. “We have just as much of a right to look in there and get ingredients as you do.”

“I said  _no._ Now get back to work. I’ll fetch the herbs myself,” Marge snarled.

If only it were so simple. In the middle of the kitchen, leaning on the counter and looking satisfied with a pilfered apple, was the bane of her existence.

“Varric,” she managed to say, sounding choked. “To what do I owe this  _pleasure_?”

“Oh, dearest Marge,” he crooned, one hand still clutching the stolen good. “It’s so good to see you. Happy to see your favorite writer?”

“Hardly,” she hissed, “What with you comin’ and distracting my staff every day. And that awful horse shit you call literature!”

“More like every other day,” he said simply. “Inquisition’s busy work. But the Inquisitor’s given me a break on account of a surprise I’m brewing up, so I have more time to see you!”

“Get to the point,” she growled. “Why the hell are you in my kitchens?”

“I heard you received –“

“No.”

Varric didn’t look surprised and instead smiled wider. “One day you’re going to let me have that bottle, Marge.”

“Over my dead body,” she snarled. “That is quality stuff I won’t let you – “

The doors to the kitchens slammed open and drew everyone’s immediate attention.

Alris stood, reddening slightly at the looks he was receiving before straightening and marching over to Marge.

“Oh,” Marge uttered, lips curled. “Great. More  _elves.”_

 “You haven’t sent out lunch for the wounded yet.”

Marge crossed her arms and snorted, eying the newcomer with incredulity. She glanced briefly to Varric, not completely done with him, but irritated at Alris for barging in. “I send out all my meals on the dot, you know this,  _boy_.”

“Not for  _Alistair,_  you haven’t,” Alris said coolly with a raised brow. “You never let Flissa grab his portion and I couldn’t help but notice it didn’t come with the sisters with lunch today. He needs food.”

“He can drink his food for all I care,” Marge sneered. “I’ve got nothing to spare for drunks.”

“He’s under the Inquisition’s protection. He’s got just as much right to be fed as anyone else here does.”

“Oh?” Marge’s brows raised. “Just like your good-for-nothing – “

There was another wail as the tiny elf from earlier dropped the dough she was kneading on the floor. Alris smirked triumphantly at the various expressions flashing across Marge’s face, reveling in her murderous anger.

“Fine,” the woman bit out, pointing stiffly towards a door to the far left. “Go in there and prepare him something  _yourself._ But don’t you dare touch anything else – I’ve got enough to deal with!”

She spun on her heel and stalked away, not without hissing something indecipherable at Varric first.

Alris watched her with raised brows and a slight smirk still in place. “Remind me why the hell she hasn’t gotten kicked out on her ass yet?”

“She makes a mean meat pie,” Varric offered. “And she gets food out quick. Not like we’ve got a line of cooks waiting outside to be hired.”

Alris gave a tight smile at him. “I suppose you’re right. If I hadn’t joined Harding, though, I would’ve shoved her out of her position in a heartbeat.”

“You cook?” Varric raised a brow.

“No,” Alris admitted. His eyes glinted ferociously when he next said, “But I hate that bitch.”

There were soft murmurs of agreement around him, far out of Marge’s earshot where she simmered by the small elven girl. The girl herself looked seconds away from fainting into her new batch of dough.

Varric laughed and nodded. “Fair enough. Mind if I accompany you? There’s a bottle in there I’ve been trying to get my hands on since we got here…”

“Oh, a  _bottle?”_ Alris echoed in amusement. They began to walk, weaving in between frantic servants and hanging herbs. “She seems to hate you more than she hates most people, even those aware of her…  _bottle collection._  Why is that?”

Varric grinned widely and mischievously, stepping aside as she opened the door to the pantry and walked in. “I wrote her into my last novel. She wasn’t too happy with the role she got.”

“And what was that?”

“I needed a name for the dog.”

Alris couldn’t help her howl of laughter that echoed throughout the larder.

~*~

An hour later, Alris appeared at the door, carrying a bowl of thin soup and some bread. At his side was Flissa, nearly vibrating with excitement at seeing Alistair awaken.

“Try not to spill most of it,” Alris said, irritatingly cheerful as he handed off the food. Flissa slipped past him quickly, barely nodding to Layla.

“Fuck off,” Layla snapped, rigid as she stepped to the side to allow the human woman pass her. She had no hands free to shut the door herself and instead stood and glared at her brother. “You are  _so_ lucky he only just now started to wake up. If I had to deal with him – “

“Ah!” cried Flissa from behind. “Good morning – err, afternoon more like!”

“Good morning?” came the slightly gurgled reply. Glancing back, Layla saw the man blink up at the redhead blearily, sitting him with shaky effort. He had been more active before Alris dosed him, but she knew the potion wasn’t made to last.

She whipped her head back to her brother, intent to keep telling him off before realizing he’d shut the door while she’d been distracted.

Damn him.

Towards the back of the room, Flissa sat close to Alistair, helping him set him with careful hands. “There you go,” she said softly. She kept her fingers tight on his shoulders for a few moments to make sure he could keep himself up. “See? You’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Alistair scowled, ruffled messy hair only adding to his grumpy look. He sounded like he was speaking over a mouthful of cotton when he spoke. “Thank you, but I think I can manage – “

Flissa drew back immediately, giving a toothy smile as the man suddenly fell back with a yelp. “Of course, Alistair.”

“Well, here it is, your Majesty,” grumbled Layla as she walked towards them. She crouched on his other side and held out the food impatiently over him.

“Oh!” Flissa blinked at her and tilted her head. “You’ll be the one feeding him, Layla. Cyrus wanted to make sure of it.”

“What?” Layla bit out, feeling her annoyance rise as Flissa merely turned back to Alistair and fluffed his pillows happily. “I thought I was just here to baby-sit.”

“I can feed  _myself,_ ” insisted Alistair, straining to look at them over his chest where he laid. He looked quite irritated at the notion that he needed  _baby-sitting._ “If you just – “

Flissa shot Layla an unimpressed look, not even sparing Alistair a glance as he struggled to right himself. “You’re to feed him. No worries, though! Once he’s got all the potion out of him, he’ll be able to feed himself.”

“And when will that be?” Layla demanded, still holding the food out insistently. “Can’t he do it now? He seems fine enough.”

Alistair made a loud sound of irritation and laid back limply. He refused to look at either of them.

“Tsk, tsk,” Flissa said, patting his shoulder in a patronizing manner. “You’ve got to get up in order to eat, Alistair. We can’t feed you laying down, you’ll choke. It’s been a while already.”

“Let him choke,” Layla hissed. “Or let’s fill up a baby bottle with some ale and give it to him.”

“I feel like I should be offended,” Alistair muttered, “But that also sounds nice right about now…”

“ _Layla!”_ Flissa gasped. Her features twisted into a dark scowl and she snatched the food from the elf. Layla flinched on instinct and slunk back. “Honestly, what  _is_ your problem? I don’t care that you aren’t happy to be  _sick-sitting_ ,” she repeated the well-known slang for the punishment, “This is still a part of your duties and beyond that, the Inquisition’s!”

Ears burning hot-red, Layla looked away with a scowl. “Can’t we at least wait till he’s shaken off most of the potion?”

Alistair looked imploringly at Flissa from below.

The woman sighed and sat back. “Fine. Your soup will be cold by then, but I suppose you know that. Your pride will kill you, you know.”

“I’m already halfway there,” Alistair murmured.

Flissa let out a sound of exasperation. “ _Men_ , I swear. In any case, now that you’re awake, do you feel up to answering some questions? It’ll speed up the potions wearing off and help me judge your health.”

Layla didn’t bother hiding her snort, but kept quiet due to Flissa’s hard glare.

“All right,” Alistair said after a moment. He already sounded more aware. “I’ll ask some too. What’s the Inquisition? Who are you people?”

“The Inquisition is…” Flissa laughed, turning slightly pink. “Well, I’ve never had to explain it before. People just  _knew._ It’s this huge organization, but it’s more of a cause. It inspires people. It started with the Herald of Andraste – he came to us in a time of crisis and saved us all. With him, he’s got his advisors and those we call his ‘Inner Circle’ – they’re the people who work along-side him in the field. The rest of us here? We’re what keep it going. Thousands of us, all over Thedas, working together. You’re not the only person we’re taking care of, nor will you be the last.”

Alistair’s expression shifted from confused to skeptical to mildly concerned through Flissa’s small speech. Layla cut in with, “We’re just a large body of people who go out and kick ass of anyone who messes with us. And we get paid well for it.”

Flissa shot her a look, but Alistair nodded in slight understanding. His mind still felt frustratingly fuzzy, but he forced himself to focus.

“What’s… what’s the last thing you remember, Alistair?” Flissa asked, but quickly realized how poor her question was from Alistair’s blanched look. “I’m sorry, I just meant – how was the state of the world? What was going on?”

Alistair didn’t respond for a moment. Then, he whispered. “Mages. The Rebellion. It finally happened.” There was a slight tinge of bitterness as he continued. “Anora had – she’d  _allowed_  them to stay with Teagan. Everyone was all proud and there was clapping and even Teagan seemed eager to help, but…”

He shuddered. “I don’t know. Something felt really, really off. I avoided them as much as I could. Then… they attacked. I can’t – I can’t really remember all that happened. People died, others ran… I got split up. Then I just… I woke up here, I guess.”

He suddenly sat up with a great deal of effort. His face was hard with determination and he looked at them both squarely. “Are you asking me because you don’t know? Does no one know what happened at Redcliffe? Are the mages – is everyone – ?“

“Redcliffe is being taken care of,” Flissa said quickly. “I can swear to you that. The Herald – he just departed with his men. The Arl and his family are safe in Denerim. But… it’s you that left everyone wondering.”

“You were lost in the fighting, we think, considering your injuries.” Layla said. “Apparently you were the only survivor.”

“Of the entire village?” Alistair almost screeched, bolting up.

“ _No!”_ Flissa put a hand on his chest, shooting a disbelieving glance at Layla. “No! Of the fight you were in. According to the driver of the wagon you’d hitch-hiked on, you’d traveled quite a bit from Redcliffe before attacked.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Layla pressed, eyes glinting as she leaned forward. She ignored Flissa’s deepening frown. “Do you know what’s going on in there? How – how you managed to stay alive when others didn’t?”

“No, unfortunately,” Alistair said hoarsely. He looked down at his lap. “I remember… I ran. Like a fool, I ran. I don’t know where to. I left. And when I couldn’t remember why I was running. And then, suddenly, darkness.”

“You can go back to your family, though, Alistair,” Flissa cut in gently. “Teagan has already been notified. While you’re in no state to go back right away, you’ll be on your feet in no time. And Redcliffe will be saved.”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t respond. His arms were almost shaking violently with the effort to keep himself held up. In the quiet of the room as they waited for his response, he could hear it again. Faintly, that singing persisted, snaking itself around his thoughts and feelings.

“Alistair?”

There was an undecipherable look on his face when he finally turned to her.

“I want to go back. To where I was found. I need to see.”

~*~

Alistair had never bathed so quickly in his life, not even when he’d been caught unaware by darkspawn, or when Morrigan had walked by, completely uninterested in him or his current activity (and both were equal in level of disgust and alarm in his mind). Thoughts were racing in his head, all different types, causing impatience to motivate him. He wanted to be out of here _now_ and go find the answers he needed, not remain suffocated in some dungeons.    

The fact he was sitting in water so cold he was shaking so hard his knees were hitting each other (or was he shaking because his tongue was dry and heavy in his mouth and he was so,  _so_ thirsty?) didn’t help. But what spurred him on even more was that, on occasion, there’d be a harsh knock on the door followed by a quiet, mocking question along the lines of, “Are you alright?” and “Are you  _sure_ you don’t need help?”

It didn’t matter. Without her interruptions he was left to spiral in his own thoughts, thinking about the past week he’d spent barely lucid and recovering and how weak and confused he still felt. It was disturbing to him how little he remembered of this actual situation, but considering he had managed to travel across the Waking Sea and remained there for months and still didn’t remember much of it, he had to acknowledge his memory perhaps not as reliable as he’d like to think.

He gave a heavy sigh, pausing in towel-drying. His muscles ached all over, stiff and unyielding from when he had tried to stretch down to dry his legs and found he could barely move without hurting himself.

The events of what happened before he must have ended up in this place played in his mind, over and over, on a loop where he felt the most important details begin to ingrain themselves in his brain. He had reasoned the darkspawn were a hallucination of some sort, as no one mentioned any when recalling the events, but that wasn’t the memory in particular that ate at him. He’d had hallucinations before and strange, disturbing dreams with the creatures, but nothing could compare to the reality of Teagan’s words.

_“I cannot help you this time. I am sorry.”_

He didn’t realize he’d punched the stone wall next to the bath until he felt his knuckles sting and arm go weak. He grunted, cradling his hand and cursing at himself for his stupidity once again. Blood flowed freely over his hands, the cuts shallow across the back from where it landed across the stone. He watched it for a moment, fascinated. It looked just like the red wine they used to serve at dinner… how long ago had that been, when Kaitilyn looked up at Teagan with such tearful pleading until he’d finally sighed and ordered away the drinks for the night?

He remembered how angry he’d been that day, how he’d done more than punch the walls in his room. More often than not, he had felt like a scorned child in Redcliffe, throwing tantrums and destroying amulets when he didn’t get his way. He was a grown  _man,_ coddled and sneered at by the populace. They see him and they think,  _oh, it’s that drunk, Alistair. Good for nothing Alistair!_

That’s why he’d left, he remembered. He couldn’t recall how he’d gotten to Kirkwall, but he remembered what spurred him on his journey, as ill-prepared and drunk as he was when he left on it.

He wasn’t a  _child_ , needing a nursemaid running at his heels to slap his hands whenever he drank too much! He was a Grey Warden. He fought  _darkspawn_ , he survived what most others could not and  _helped_ people. Everyone was happy to forget they’d been saved by him at one point or another, but he was there for most of the bloody Blight. He was – he  _should’ve_ been a  _hero_ , free of all judgement! He was…!

He sighed tiredly, and against the protest of his trembling, achy muscles, he heaved himself carefully onto the edge of his tub and dunked his hand into the freezing water. Hissing as the still-cold water hit his cuts, he watched as the blood began to color the water.

He wasn’t anyone, not anymore. He was Nobody. He was a worthless drunk, mooching off of his remaining family whose tolerance of him was all but drained. Isolde had never sugared her words with Alistair as a child and saw less reason to when he became the drunken fool he was. She had never lost her fury over Teagan’s taking care of him over the years, instead nursing it till it became so unstable that they often spent the days she was visiting in completely separate wings of the castle.

Alistair was fine with it being that way. Really. His own tolerance of the woman was as thin as hers for himself, and if he never saw her again for as long as he lived it would be too soon.

Now, however… looking around this bare, tidy room, stocked with the bare necessities for bathing, he almost missed her. At least she was a constant in his life. At this moment, he had no clue where he was. Here, in this foreign place surrounded by judgmental looks from people who act like they know who he is, he was completely alone and at their mercy.

 _Naked in the most literal sense_ , he chuckled to himself without any humor. Perhaps that was why he sort of liked Layla and her blunt, angry nature. She was honest with her feelings and shared them without remorse, never tip-toeing around him or looking at him with useless pity. It reminded him of Morrigan and Isolde and so many of the other angry women that passed through his life.

He finished cleaning his knuckles and drying himself, finding no need to distract himself when the pain in his body and thirst for drink slowly crept back into awareness. Vaguely, he realized it had been quite some time since the young woman had hammered at his door. He slipped on the thick woolen tunic and stitched trousers that had been laid out on the stool by the bath, feeling free of grime and dirt for the first time in a while, and let himself enjoy the feeling as he opened the door.

“Finally done, Princess?” Layla was leaning against the wall and raised an unimpressed brow when she spotted him. She wasn’t subtle with the way she looked him up and down before finally nodding in approval. “Nice. Now I won’t have to hold my nose whenever I come down.”

Alistair rolled his eyes and shoved past her.

~*~

 “This place is a castle,” murmured Alistair as they walked, eyes wide as he glanced around. “It’s  _huge_. I haven’t seen this many people in one place since – Denerim. Maker. Is that a  _throne?”_

He was gesturing to the grand, obnoxiously large throne standing front and center in the main hall, proudly showing off its large dragon-tooth tusks.

“You’re causing a scene,” hissed Layla. “Stop looking like an idiot and watch where we’re going. At some point you’ll have to walk around her by yourself and I won’t be blamed for you getting lost. Didn’t you live in a fuckin’ castle?”

“What, Redcliffe?” There was no hiding the bitterness in his voice. “I mostly stuck to one wing. Only people I’d really ever see is the servants and Teagan’s family.”

“What, too good for the rest of the world?”

Alistair scowled. “More like the rest of the world was too good for me.” He focused on his surroundings with more subtly, subdued with the onslaught of unwelcome thoughts. “So. This is the  _Inquisition_ , huh?”

“Skyhold, more specifically,” Layla corrected, feeling awkward and unsure how to explain such a large idea. The Inquisition was more of a  _thing_ than a definition easily given. If not there to witness its creation and the chaos that raised need for it, it was a hard thing to comprehend.

Then again, she’s talking to a drunk.

“We’re spread out all over southern Thedas, but this is our main keep. This is where the Inquisitor stays when he’s not out doing…well, whatever important, Andrastian-level magical beasts do.”

“What’s he like?” Alistair asked. He had many questions but had learned that getting answers out of Layla required patience. There was a new hero and there always would be. He couldn’t help but be curious about whoever’s saving the world now. Various paintings decorated the halls, all of noblemen and unidentifiable persons he’d never seen before. Surely someone as grand as the Inquisitor would have a statue somewhere? The Warden did. “This Inquisitor, I mean. Be honest, it’s not like I’d tell anyone what you’d say.”

“Not like anyone would believe anything you said,” Layla snorted. “And he’s… all right, I suppose. Big beast of a qunari, I’ll tell you that, but I can’t talk. The only ones here are as big as the doorways, so maybe they’re actually small.”

“A qunari?” Alistair stopped in his tracks, nearly bumping into an Orlesian noblewoman’s huge skirts. She shot him a nasty look from under his mask (he guessed) before scoffing and hurrying off. He made a face at her. “Like, big, grey, horns or maybe not with a constant scowl and love of cookies?”

Layla squinted at him. “Well, they’re both big and grey with stupid large horns. It’s hard to adjust to at first, one of them giving out orders, but we adjusted. Even the Chantry.”

“Chantry. Adjust to a qunari.” He continued to stare at her. “How long was I asleep?”

Layla rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, shoving him forward with surprising strength. “C’mon, Princess, keep up, through here. You should meet the Ambassador before we go anywhere else, at least to sort things out before you depart. She’ll be  _thrilled.”_

_~*~_

**_R_ ** _edcliffe._

Connor was keenly aware of eyes watching him.

“If you’ve to say something, I’d prefer you’d go ahead, serah.” His voice was flat as he spoke, not even bothering to turn around from the chicken coop. The basket on his arm was heavy. People were dying and he was picking eggs for a _Magister._

“I’ve nothing to say, dear ser,” came the silky voice, tinged with amusement. “It just seems you are not quite happy with your… arrangements. Would you prefer another chore to this?”

Connor froze, hand hovering an egg from the nesting box. He forced himself to breathe.

“If there is another to chore to be had, I would have nothing of it, _Ser Magister,_ ” he said evenly. “In fact, I much prefer this to perhaps anything I have ever done in my life, magical or not.”

“Truly?”

“Truly!” Connor whipped around, eyes flashing. “I can only wonder what I’d do with my life if it weren’t for your intervention!”

The man before him, though obviously Tevinter, was none of the men he’d seen before. Not Alexius or his son or the hired men they had with him. All at once, the realization of what he just did hit the boy. He paled and stepped back, shaking suddenly.

“Ser Magister, I – “

“Now, now,” the man said quickly, “I’m technically not a magister, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? My name is Dorian Pavus and it’s been a pleasure. I would like to know your name, also, if you would let me.”

The boy swallowed. “Connor.”

“No last name?” Dorian asked, tilting his head.

“No last name,” Connor confirmed quickly. “I was taken by the Templars as a babe. Didn’t know my parents.”

Something dark passed in Dorian’s eyes, giving Connor some reassurance he had perhaps not ruined things for himself.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said, sounding sincere. “I was being honest, though. It has been a pleasure. Your…enthusiasm towards the chickens is much appreciated, I’m sure.”

“Ah,” Connor rubbed the back of his head with his free hand, ears reddening. “It’s – for earlier, I’m sorry – “

“No, no, no,” Dorian held up his hands. “Please, truly, don’t apologize. Horrid business they’ve got going on here. Indentured servitude, really? What was Alexius thinking, treating you like the Templars did?”

“Are you… friends with the Magister?” Connor asked carefully.

“You could say that,” Dorian said ruefully. “He was my mentor. I knew little of what he planned, and had I known it would turn out like this…”

“Yes, well, you’ve certainly done a lot to help,” Connor huffed. “I haven’t seen you until now.”

“That’s because, my dear Connor,” Dorian smiled, “He knows nothing of my presence here. And there is hope the one person who does know I am here will say nothing?”

Connor’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and they held each other’s gazes for a moment.

“Free them,” Connor said after a beat, voice thick. “Promise me they will all be free when this is over and I will help you.”

“Wonderful!” Dorian grinned, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you, Connor, on my honor and life.”

Connor could only hope those things held meaning in Tevinter, stomach twisting into knots.

 

 

 


End file.
